THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


¥"< 


..WALTER   C.  GAYHART  *  ' 

5  02 

LOS  ANGELES     ::     CALIF. 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 


Ail  rights  reserved 


News  from  the 
Ducky 


By  Sir  ARTHUR 
QUILLER-COUCH 


BOSTON 

RICHARD    G.    BADGER 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 
1914 


Bristol,  Eng.  :   J.  W.  Arrowsmith  Ltd.,  Quay  Street 


£•  A/¥7 


\ 


Go 

MY    FRIEND 

AUSTIN     M.     PURVES 

OF 

PHILADELPHIA 

AND 

TROY   TOWN 


625465 


CONTENTS 


PART    I, 

TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 
PIPES    IN    ARCADY  . 
OUR    LADY    OF    GWITHIAN     . 
PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 
THE    MONT-BAZILLAC       . 
THE    THREE    NECKLACES 
THE    WREN        .... 
NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO! 
FIAT    JUSTITIA    RUAT    SOLUM 
THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 
LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 
THE    CASK    ASHORE 


Page 
ii 

IOI 

117 
125 

143 
157 
173 
181 
199 
211 
231 
251 


PART  II 

PRIAM'S    CELLARS 287 

ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 309 

THE    ELECTION    COUNT 325 

THE    MERRY-GO-ROUND    AT    TROY         .  .  .347 

A    YACHTING    ADVENTURE 355 

THE    DIVE    OF    THE    GANNET          .          .  .  .363 

IF? .  .369 


Vll 


" 


PART    I 


LO£ 


Tom  Tiddlers   Ground 


PROLOGUE 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  ISLES 

"  Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 

Light  of  heart  and  step  was  she  ; 
I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 

That  ever  was  in  the  West  Countrie. 
But  beauty  vanishes,  beauty  passes. 

However  rare,  rare  it  be, 
And  when  I  crumble  who  shall  remember 

That  lady  of  the  West  Countrie  ?  " 

Walter  de  la  Mare. 

Should  you  ask  who  brought  prosperity  to  the 
Islands — or  brought  it  back  after  long  years  of 
estrangement — nine  Islanders  out  of  ten  would  have 
answered  '  The  Mistress  ;  '  meaning  the  sad  and 
beautiful  lady  who  dwelt  at  Iniscaw,  and  now  sang 
to  herself,  after  having  sung  in  capital  cities  to  great 
audiences,  with  kings  and  queens  eager  to  listen. 
In  addition  to  her  beauty  and  her  voice  (which  in 
itself  was  a  miracle)  God  had  given  her  courage,  so 
that  she  kept  her  light  step  ;    but  she  had  lost  her 

ii 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCIIY 

lightness  of  heart  ever  since  she  had  found  love  too 
late,  and  discovered  about  the  same  time  that  her 
voice  was  passing  with  her  beauty. 

She  was  Lady  Proprietress  of  the  Islands,  holding 
them  on  a  lease  from  Queen  Victoria.  '  All  those 
Her  Majesty's  territories  and  rocks,'  so  the  legal 
wording  ran,  '  together  with  all  sounds,  harbours 
and  sands  within  the  circuit  of  the  said  Isles,  and  all 
lands,  tenements,  meadows,  pastures,  grounds, 
feedings,  fishings,  mines  of  tin,  lead  and  coals,  and  all 
profits  of  the  same  ' — But  there  were  no  such  mines, 
by  the  way,  and  by  consequence  no  such  profits — 
'  and  all  marshes,  void  grounds,  woods,  underwoods, 
rents,  reversions,  services  and  all  other  profits, 
rights,  commodities,  advantages  and  emoluments 
within  the  said  Isles ;  and  a  moiety  of  all  shipwreck, 
the  other  moiety  to  be  received  by  the  Lords 
Commissioners  of  Admiralty.' 

Her  predecessor,  being  a  man,  had  also  been  sole 
justiciar}^,  with  full  power  to  hear,  examine  and  finally 
determine  all  plaints,  suits,  matters,  actions  and 
demands  whatever,  moved  and  depending  between 
partyand  party  inhabiting  the  same  Isles — all  heresies 
and  treasons  excepted — with  all  controversies  or 
causes  touching  life  or  member  of  man,  title  of  land, 
or  ships  or  other  things  belonging  to  the  High 
Court  of  Admiralty.  She,  as  a  woman,  assigned  the 
Commission  of  the  Queen's  Peace  into  the  hands  of 
three  Magistrates,  with  a  solitary  policeman  to  help 
them  ;   but,  for  the  rest,  within  the  small  realm  she 

12 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

was  sovereign  more  absolute  than  Queen  Victoria, 
who  ruled  somewhere  on  "the  Main" — a  vaguely 
realised  land,  thirty  miles  away,  discernible  on  clear 
mornings  as  a  cloud  upon  the  sea. 

For  the  Islands,  ridged  with  reefs  and  dotted  with 
sentinel  lighthouses,  lie  off  the  west  coast  of 
England,  well  out  in  the  Atlantic,  in  the  mouth  of 
the  warm  Gulf  Stream.  Six  are  inhabited,  and 
contain  between  them  less  than  three  thousand  acres 
suitable  for  grazing  or  tillage  ;  the  rest,  eighteen  or 
twenty  in  number,  are  mere  islets,  rocky  and  barren, 
on  which  the  seabirds  breed. 

The  rock  is  granitic,  the  soil  light  and  friable, 
without  width  or  depth  for  serious  husbandry ; 
and  a  hundred  years  ago  the  inhabitants  sub- 
sisted almost  wholly  by  fishing  and  by  burning 
down  the  seaweed  for  '  kelp/  which  went  to 
Bristol  to  the  making  of  glass  and  soap.  Times 
had  bettered  when  the  increase  of  our  sea-borne 
trade  brought  work  to  the  pilots  on  St.  Ann's, 
the  southernmost  island,  and  every  long  spell  of 
easterly  wind  might  be  counted  on  to  crowd  the 
roadstead  with  vessels  '  waiting  for  orders.'  About 
that  time,  too,  the  farmers  on  St.  Lide's  (the  largest 
island),  Iniscaw,  Brefar  and  Saaron  had  taken  to 
growing  early  potatoes  for  the  English  market, 
planting  them  in  shallow  rows  with  a  bare  covering 
of  soil — the  Islands  know  no  frost — and  harvesting 
them  a  month  ahead  of  growers  on  the  Main. 

During  her  girlhood — for  the  Lady  was  native  to 

:3 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

her  realm — these  operations  had  been  in  full  swing, 
and  she  could  remember  the  boats  arriving  in  April 
with  gangs  of  diggers  hired  over  from  England  to 
save  the  crops,  which  in  prosperous  years  would 
touch  a  thousand  tons.  But  to  get  the  freight 
across  to  the  Main  and  by  rail  to  London  cost  forty- 
five  shillings  a  ton ;  and  when  Malta,  Algiers,  and 
the  Canaries  started  to  compete  at  sea-borne  rates 
of  thirty  shillings  or  thereabouts,  the  Islanders' 
profit  diminished,  until  a  crop  scarcely  paid  for  saving. 
This  happened  just  as  steam  started  in  earnest  to 
sweep  the  old  sailing  vessels  off  the  face  of  the  waters, 
and  the  island  pilots,  scarcely  realising  their  doom, 
would  lie  off  for  days  and  nights  together  before  they 
fell  in  with  a  tall  ship  to  signal  them.  In  brief, 
the  Islands  had  fallen  back  into  hard  poverty  when 
the  Lady  returned  to  them  to  take  up  her  possessions. 

Now  though  she  lived  remote  from  the  daily  life 
of  her  people,  and  in  those  early  days  was  known  to 
them  for  the  most  part  as  a  voice  singing  wonderful 
songs  to  herself  in  her  charmed  garden  amid  the 
tide  races,  the  Lady  was  in  fact  a  shrewd  woman  of 
business.  She  had  noted,  on  her  visits  to  London, 
that  Londoners,  as  they  grew  prosperous,  were 
growing  ever  fonder  of  flowers  ;  that  not  only  did 
the  great  houses,  the  hotels,  the  restaurants  require 
flowers  for  their  dinner  tables,  but  even  the  poor 
clerk  pinched  his  pocket  for  a  bunch  to  carry  home. 

One  June  morning,  at  the  fag-end  of  a  masked  ball 
at  Covent  Garden,  she  had  spent  a  couple  of  hours 

14 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

in  the  flower-market,  wandering  in  the  early  daylight 
from  stall  to  stall  as  the  carts  rumbled  in  and  the 
auction  assembled;  and  the  buyers  and  sellers  had 
wondered  at  the  businesslike  questions  this  exquisite 
visitant  in  Watteau  gown  and  satin  shoes  put  to 
them  concerning  prices,  freights,  discounts,  demand 
and  supply. 

She  learned  from  them  that  the  market  was  hun- 
griest in  early  spring,  between  the  New  Year  and 
Lent,  when  open-air  flowers  were  few  or  none.  She 
recalled  the  sweet  narcissi  that,  home  in  the  Islands, 
bloomed  in  late  February  and  early  March  ;  not 
only  the  common  Lent-lily,  but  tazettas  — '  Island 
Whites  *  or  '  Holy-vales  ' — beneath  the  apple  trees  at 
Holy  Vale  Farm  on  St.  Lide's  ;  '  Grand  Monarque's  ' 
within  the  tumble-down  walls  of  the  Fort  on 
Garrison  Hill ;  '  Island  Whites  '  again,  intermixed 
with  '  Solidors  '  (Soleils  d'or),  in  the  meadow  below 
her  own  Abbey  House  on  Iniscaw,  fringing  the  shores 
of  the  freshwater  lake  that  had  served  the  old  monks 
for  fish-pond.  On  her  return  to  the  Islands  she  had 
dropped  a  hint  to  Farmer  Banford  of  Holy  Vale 
that  here,  maybe,  was  a  trade  worth  starting. 

"  What  !  "  said  he.     "  In  they  old  things  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  she  replied,  "  because  flowers  are  beautiful 
you  think  it  womanish  even  to  consider  them  !  " 

"  Beauty  doesn't  pay."  Farmer  Banford  shook 
his  head. 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  friend,"  she  assured  him,  with 
one  of  her  puzzling  smiles.      "  And,  what  is  more, 

15 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

many  things  that  don't  pay  are  well  worth  paying 
for.  I  will  leave  this  address  with  you,  at  any  rate, 
and  you  can  think  it  over." 

Next  spring,  early  one  fine  February  morning, 
as  the  small  mail-packet  Lady  of  the  Isles  was  getting 
up  steam  for  her  return  passage  to  the  Main,  Farmer 
Banford  came  along  the  quayside  at  Garland  Town 
(harbour  of  St.  Lide's)  with  a  huge  bandbox  of 
cardboard  under  his  arm. 

"  Hullo,  Farmer  !  "  hailed  Captain  Frank,  the 
skipper.     "  Bound  across  for  England,  hey  ?  ' 

The  farmer  grinned. 

"  Looks  like  the  kind  o'  trunk  I  'd  be  takin', 
don't  it  ?  " 

"  What  's  inside  ?  " 

"  Women's  notions.  If  you  must  know,  my  old 
missus  have  a-taken  a  bee  in  her  cap,  and  I  'm 
sendin'  it  to  Lunnon  for  the  best  advice." 

So  Mrs.  Banford's  cap-box  travelled  up  to  London, 
packed  with  three  dozen  bunches  of  '  Holy-vales,' 
and  addressed — 

To  Mr.  Shellabear 

Fruit  and  Flower  Merchant 

Covent  Garderr- 

London 

England 
With  Speed 

We  shall  describe,  as  well  as  we  may,  what 
prosperity  dawned  for  the  Islands  from  the  moment 

16 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

when  Mr.  Shillabear  in  Covent  Garden  lifted  the  lid 
of  that  fateful  box.  As  the  farmer's  luck  spread 
with  his  story,  and  the  whole  archipelago  turned  to 
bulb-growing,  all  praised  the  Mistress,  her  woman's 
wit  and  her  foresight. 

Doubtless  she  deserved  their  praises.  Yet  the 
gods  sometimes  hide  the  secret  of  a  gift,  and  hide  it 
under  the  obvious.  Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere 
causas. 

It  was  at  least  curious  that  the  coming  of  prosperity 
should  coincide  with  the  coming  of  the  child,  John 
Smith,  to  the  Islands. 


17 


CHAPTER    I 

JAN 

'  Then  round  went  the  good  ship 

And  thrice  she  went  round  ; 
When  up  there  stood  a  guardsman, 

A  naked  man  and  brown, — 
Says,  '  You  are  the  Queen  of  Carthage 

And  gey  young  to  drown  ; 
But  hold  you  my  girdle 

That  goeth  me  around, 
And  we  '11  swim  to  yon  Island 

As  I  will  be  bound  ' 
'  Man,  your  girdle  it  is  breaking  !  ' 

'  Nay,  'tis  strong  yet  and  sound  ; 
'Twas  my  heart  you  felt  a-breaking, 

But  here  is  dry  ground.' 

With  the  white  sand  she  cover'd  him, 

Her  wet  hair  she  wound  ; 
'  Deo-gracey,'  said  Zenobia, 

'  That  I  am  not  drown'd  ! 


>  )> 


Ballad  of  Queen  Zenobia. 

The  mail-boat  that  brought  back  a  letter  for  Farmer 
Banford,  and  in  the  letter  a  postal  order,  arrived  in 
St.  Lide's  Pool  three  hours  behind  her  time,  having 
fought  the  last  twelve  miles  of  her  passage  against 
a  westerly  gale.  The  gale  increased  at  nightfall, 
and  between  midnight  and  two  in  the  morning  blew 
a  hurricane. 

18 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

Soon  after  daybreak,  in  the  midst  of  her  dressing, 
word  reached  the  Lady  that  a  vessel  was  ashore  on 
the  west  side  of  St.  Ann's,  and  fast  breaking  up. 
The  message  came  from  the  coastguard  on  St.  Lide's 
across  the  private  cable  laid  for  her  between  that 
Tsland  and  Iniscaw. 

On  these  occasions  she  was  always  prompt,  yet 
not  recklessly,  being  in  fact  knowledgeable  of  wind 
and  water  as  any  of  her  boatmen.  She  gazed  south- 
ward from  her  window,  and  decided  that  by  the  time 
her  launch  could  be  put  under  steam  and  worked 
down  to  the  open  sound,  the  wind — which  had 
northered — would  have  allayed  the  seas  running 
there,  and  the  traject  would  be  made  with  little 
risk. 

Nevertheless  the  small  cratt  had  shipped  some 
bucketfuls,  and  her  fires  had  more  than  once  been 
in  danger,  before  she  weathered  the  Smith  Eocks, 
that  lie  off  the  north-west  angle  of  St.  Ann's,  and 
sheered  down  like  a  flying  fish  into  smoother  waters. 
The  Lady  steered,  her  sea-cloak  and  blown  hair 
drenched  with  spray. 

"  Where  was  the  wreck  ?  "  She  hailed  a  pilot- 
cutter  that  was  moving  dead  slow  off  the  islets  with 
mainsail  reefed  and  foresheet  to  windward.  The 
pilot  called  back  through  a  megaphone  that  she 
had  gone  down  somewhere  under  their  keel  and  they 
were  creeping  about  for  wreckage.  The  crew  of  the 
coastguard  gig,  searching  closer  inshore  to  the 
southward,    reported    the    missing    vessel    to    be    a 

19 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

barque — an  Italian,  as  they  believed — name  un- 
known. 

"  Anyone  saved  ?  " 

They  shook  their  heads. 

"  Lost — all  hands  !  "  came  the  answer. 

There  would  be  flotsam,  no  doubt,  close  under 
the  cliffs  —  a  lifebelt,  maybe,  or  some  fragment  of 
a  boat  bearing  the  vessel's  name  ;  but  in  the  sea  yet 
running  the  rocks  could  not  be  approached.  The 
Lady  gave  orders  to  slow  down  and  join  in  the  search. 
By  this  the  northerly  wind  had  dispersed  the  storm- 
wrack,  and  as  they  worked  southward  and  opened 
Prillis  Cove  the  sun  shone  through.  A  small  crowd 
of  Islanders — men  and  women — had  gathered  on 
the  beach  at  the  head  of  the  cove,  and  the  Lady 
steered  in,  if  haply  they  might  have  news. 

They  had  none.  But,  while  she  parleyed  with 
them,  over  the  high  ground  a  woman  came  running 
against  the  wind,  waving  her  arms  and  pointing 
southward.  The  launch  was  backed,  turned,  set 
going  again  on  her  way. 

Beyond  the  next  point  lay  another  beach  of  clean 
white  sand,  on  the  upper  part  of  which  the  cliffs  cast 
their  morning  shadow ;  and  there,  a  little  outside  the 
edge  of  the  shadow,  between  it  and  the  running 
dazzle  of  the  waves,  stood  a  group  of  three  figures 
stooping  over  a  fourth.  The  Lady  at  first  sight  of 
them  gave  a  start,  made  sign  to  one  of  her  men  near 
by  in  the  sternsheets,  and  yielding  over  the  helm  to 
him  as  he  reached  out  a  hand,  drew  her  field-glass 

20 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

from  the  case  slung  at  her  hip,  sighted  it,  and  focussed 
it  on  the  group. 

"  Set  me  ashore,"  she  said  quietly,  fifteen  seconds 
later,  lowering  the  glass.  Her  face  was  white  to 
the  lips ;  but  the  crew  did  not  observe  this,  so 
steadily  she  controlled  her  voice. 

They  ran  the  launch  in  under  the  lee  of  the 
northerly  cliff  (where  was  least  run  in  the  waves), 
and  grounded  her  on  the  steep-to  beach.  Two  of 
them  leapt  out  over  the  bows,  and  would  have  made 
a  cradle  of  their  hands  to  carry  their  mistress  dry- 
shod  over  the  knee-deep  water,  but  she  sprang  after 
them  and  waded  ashore,  declining  help. 

An  elderly  man — a  gentleman  by  his  bearing — 
came  down  to  the  beach  to  meet  her.  He  wore 
a  brown  garment,  in  length  and  shape  somewhat 
like  the  soutane  of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest.  He 
saluted  her  gravely,  respectfully,  then  lowered  his 
eyes. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  she  asked,  her  gaze  travelling  past 
him  to  the  body  beside  which  his  companions — 
elderly  men  likewise,  the  pair  of  them  dressed  in 
ragged  blue  regimentals — were  kneeling  as  they 
attempted  to  restore  animation.  They  had  turned  it 
on  its  right  side  and  were  rubbing  the  naked  body 
briskly,  the  one  at  work  at  the  back  beneath  the 
shoulder-blade,  the  other  on  the  legs  from  calf  to 
ankle  ;  for  it  lay  with  no  clothing  but  trousers  of 
dark  sea-cloth,  rolled  tight  and  tied  above  the 
knees. 

21 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Dr.  Hervey,  the  man  in  the  soutane,  answered 
with  a  gesture  that  might  equally  well  have  meant 
"  Yes  "  or  "  No." 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

He  cast  a  hesitating  glance  at  her.  Perhaps  he 
was  wondering — as  she  herself  wondered — at  the 
strange  composure  of  her  voice. 

"  The  Commandant  and  I  were  smoking  a  late 
pipe  together  when  the  rocket  went  up.  He  called 
out  the  two  sergeants  here,  and  in  twenty  minutes 
we  four  were  pulling  out  in  the  garrison  boat,  close 
in  the  wake  of  the  coastguard.     But  their  gig  is 

a  new  one  and  speedy,  whereas  ours,  as  you  know 

and  moreover  we  were  none  of  us  young  men.  We 
soon  lost  sight  of  them  in  the  darkness,  and  then, 
coming  to  open  water  and  finding  that  she  could  not 
live  in  it,  the  Commandant  gave  orders  to  shape 
down  for  the  back  of  the  Island.  We  fetched  the 
lee  of  it  just  before  the  gale  worsened,  beached  the 
boat  in  Menadhu  Cove,  and  started  to  tramp  across 
land.  The  wind  by  this  time  was  incredible.  On 
the  high  ground  we  had  to  make  short  rushes  against 
it,  drop  on  hands  and  knees,  catch  breath  and  make 
another  rush.  It  took  us  till  close  upon  daylight 
to  cross  to  St.  Ann's  Down.  Then  the  wind  flew 
almost  without  warning,  and  the  rest  was  easy. 
We  came,  to  Chapel  Point  as  the  day  broke.  There 
was  no  sign  of  a  ship  ;  but  about  half  a  mile  from 
shore  the  Commandant  spied  a  man  swimming,  and 
pointed  him  out  to  us.     The  man  was  a  negro,  and 

22 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

he  swam  superbly.  We  watched  him,  taking  turns 
with  the  Commandant's  glass.  He  was  black  as 
coal,  and  strapped  high  on  his  shoulders — almost 
on  the  nape  of  the  neck — he  carried  a  small 
white  bundle.  He  swam  with  his  head,  too,  not 
straight  for  shore,  but  letting  the  tide  carry 
him — only,  of  course,  he  could  not  know  of  the 
eddy  race  that  had  begun  to  set,  closer  inshore.  He 
met  it,  and  after  a  minute  we  could  see  that  he  was 
tiring.  He  made  no  headway  at  all,  and  this  within 
five  hundred  yards  of  shore.  The  Commandant 
could  not  stand  the  sight  of  it,  but  stripped,  for  all 
we  could  do  to  prevent  him,  and  swam  out  to  help. 
The  black  man,  when  he  reached  him,  would  take 
no  help,  but  passed  over  the  bundle  and  swam  in 
the  Commandant's  wake,  maybe  for  half  a  minute. 
The  heart  had  gone  out  of  his  strokes  though,  and 
presently  he  went  out  of  sight  without  so  much  as 
a  cry.  At  all  events  the  Commandant  could  have 
heard  none,  for  he  swam  on  some  way  before  looking 
back.  I  was  watching  all  the  while  through  the  glass. 
When  he  looked  and  the  man  had  disappeared,  he 
seemed  to  tread  water  for  a  while  and  to  search 
about,  but  gave  it  up  and  headed  for  shore  again, 
swimming  sideways  with  one  arm  and  holding  the 
bundle  against  his  right  shoulder.  He  brought  it 
ashore  just  in  that  way,  not  once  shifting  his  hold." 

"  But  I  do  not  understand.  He  is  drowned,  you 
say " 

"  I  do  not  say  it.    WTe  ran  down  to  the  shoal  water 

23 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

to  meet  him,  and  as  he  found  footing  he  dropped 
forward  into  my  arms  ;  or  rather,  he  thrust  the 
bundle  on  me  and  fell,  right  there  on  the  water's 
edge." 

"  The  bundle  ?  " 

Dr.  Hervey  turned  and  pointed.  Some  twenty 
yards  up  the  beach  lay  a  white  object  which  she 
had  taken  for  the  dead  man's  shirt,  tossed  there  as 
they  had  stripped  it  from  him.  Why  did  she  walk 
towards  it  now  and  not  first  towards  the  body  ? 
Why,  instead  of  going  straight  to  the  body,  had 
she  stood  inert,  letting  the  tale  fall  on  her  ears  half 
apprehended  ?  She  had  been  swift  and  resolute 
enough  until  the  moment  when  her  feet  felt  the 
shore.  Already  three  of  her  crew  were  gathered 
beside  the  two  old  sergeants,  gazing  soberly  down 
upon  the  dead,  offering  suggestions  which  —  too 
well  she  knew — were  vain.  Her  presence,  likewise, 
would  be  vain,  yet  surely  she  should  have  been 
there. 

For — after  one  girlish  passion  outlasted  and  almost 
forgotten — this  man,  some  years  ago,  had  become 
the  chief  man  in  the  world  for  her ;  the  truest,  the 
most  honourable,  as  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  she 
had  been  the  sovereign  and  only  woman  for  him. 
Disparity  of  years,  his  poverty,  his  pride,  had  set 
the  barrier,  and  she  had  never  found  courage  to  cast 
away  shame  and  break  it  down.  For  years  they 
had  been  able  to  meet  and  talk  with  an  undisturbed 
courtesy. 

24 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

"  Yet  what  no  chance  could  then  reveal 
And  neither  would  be  first  to  own 
Let  fate  and  courage  now  conceal, 

When  truth  could  bring  remorse  alone." 

Courage  ?  It  had  been  cowardice,  rather,  on  her 
part, — or  so  she  told  herself.  And  the  cowardice 
must  go  on,  even  now.  She  stepped  to  the  bundle. 
It  was  of  linen,  soaked  with  salt  water ;  and  within 
it,  stark  naked,  twisting  his  small  legs  while  he  cried, 
lay  an  infant — a  man-child.  In  the  bass  of  the  waves 
on  the  sand  she  had  caught  no  sound  of  the  treble 
wailing.  She  stooped  and  lifted  him  in  her  arms. 
With  the  edge  of  her  cloak  she  wiped  away  some 
of  the  brine  from  the  creases  of  his  small  body ;  and 
the  child,  ceasing  his  wail,  looked  up  into  her  eyes 
and  crowed  with  glee. 

"  Venus  the  sea-born  mothering  Cupid !  "  muttered 
Dr.  Hervey. 

But  at  this  moment  the  Lady,  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  thrust  the  child  on  him  with  a  gesture  of 
repugnance.  Her  eyes  had  fallen  on  the  two  old 
sergeants,  who  had  laid  their  dead  master  over  on 
his  back  and  were  vainly  endeavouring  to  coax  back 
the  living  breath,  raising  his  arms  and  anon  pressing 
the  elbows  back  against  the  sides — all  with  the  dull, 
dogged  motions  of  a  military  drill. 

"  Ah,  tell  them  to  stop  !  "  she  entreated.  "  He 
has  had  enough  of  it.  Cannot  they  see  that  his  heart 
is  broken  ?  " 


25 


CHAPTER    II 

star  castle 
Ubique. 

The  dead  Commandant  had  carved  the  word  one 
day,  in  letters  five  feet  long,  out  of  the  short  turf  on 
Garrison  Hill  where  it  slopes  steeply  from  the  Star 
Castle  (as  they  call  its  antiquated  small  citadel)  to 
the  cliff  overlooking  the  roadstead  and  the  Western 
Islands.  He  had  carved  it  in  pure  idleness,  as  an 
afternoon  game  to  cheat  the  leisure  enforced  upon 
hun  since  Government  had  dismantled  his  batteries, 
drafted  his  gunners  off  to  the  Main,  and  left  him  with 
two  old  sergeants — Sergeant  Archelaus  and  Sergeant 
Treacher — to  mark  time,  until  the  end  of  his  days,  by 
firing  a  gun  at  eight  in  the  morning,  another  at  sunset, 
and  in  the  intervals  by  ringing  the  bell  over  the  gate 
of  the  Fort  every  three  hours  to  tell  the  time  to  the 
town  below. 

Ubique :  it  was  the  motto  of  his  old  corps,  which 
he  still  served — as  they  also  serve  who  only  stand 
and  wait.  When  the  word  was  carved  he  had  a  mind 
to  efface  it,  but  had  again  been  too  indolent.  Now 
he  was  gone,  and  Sergeant  Archelaus  kept  the  letters 
religiously  trimmed  with  a  turf-cutter.  Sergeant 
Archelaus,  a  bachelor,  lived  alone  and  looked  after 

26 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

the  white-washed  empty  barracks  on  the  summit 
of  the  hill.  The  other  Sergeant — Treacher — was 
a  married  man.  He  and  his  wife  inhabited  the  Star 
Castle,  and  with  them  lived  the  boy  whom  everyone 
knew  as  Jan. 

Pending  discovery  of  his  true  name,  the  Lady 
had  christened  him  John  Smith— Smith  from  the 
name  of  the  rocks  on  which  the  vessel  had  split, 
and  John  because  nothing  could  be  more  ordinary. 
For  the  rest  she  seemed  to  have  taken  a  scunner  (as 
the  Scots  say)  at  the  helpless  babe— an  aversion  not 
unmixed  with  a  nameless  fear.  But  something  had 
to  be  done  for  him.  There  is  no  workhouse  on  the 
Islands  ;  the  rule  that  makes  the  aged,  the  infirm, 
the  helpless  a  sacred  charge  upon  their  own  kindred 
works  well  enough  in  a  community  so  small  that 
everybody  is  more  or  less  nearly  related  to  every- 
body else,  and  tradition  has  ordered  that  all  ship- 
wrecked persons  must  be  treated  with  a  like  beautiful 
hospitality.  So,  as  Treacher  had  been  present  at 
the  finding  of  the  child,  and  Mrs.  Treacher  was 
a  comfortable  woman  who  had  reared  children,  to 
the  Treachers  little  Jan  was  assigned  by  the  Lady, 
whose  word  none  disputed. 

To  be  sure,  his  was  a  singular  case.  The  ordinary 
outcast  from  the  sea  abides  but  a  short  time  on  the 
Islands,  and  in  due  course  is  returned  to  home  and 
friends.  But  to  any  home,  any  friends — any  origin, 
in  short — of  "  John  Smith "  no  clue  could  be 
discovered.      The   vessel  proved   to   be   an   Italian 

27 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

barque,  the  Fior  dell'  Onda,  Glasgow  built,  and 
formerly — under  the  name  of  Lochroyan — owned 
by  a  company  of  Glasgow  merchants  in  whose 
service  she  had  made  half  a  dozen  passages  round  the 
Horn.  A  Genoese  firm  had  purchased  and  re-named 
her,  and  her  last  port  of  sailing  had  been  Genoa, 
whence  she  was  bound  in  ballast  for  Fowey,  there 
to  load  a  cargo  of  china  clay.  So  much  the  Lady 
discovered  through  her  agents  and  through  Lloyd's, 
but  the  Genoese  owners  could  tell  her  nothing  con- 
cerning the  child.  To  their  knowledge  there  had 
been  no  woman  on  board  the  Fior  dell'  Onda  either 
on  this  or  her  previous  voyage  (Genoa  to  Famagusta, 
port  of  Cyprus,  and  back). 

So  Jan  lived  with  the  Treachers  until  his  eighth 
year,  sleeping  in  an  attic  of  the  Star  Castle,  learning 
his  letters  in  the  elementary  school  down  in  Garl&nd 
Town,  and  picking  up  a  little  Latin  from  Dr.  Hervey, 
who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  child  and  a  whim  to 
teach  him. 

His  best  opportunity  for  this  came  with  the 
spring  holidays,  when  the  schools  on  the  Islands  were 
closed  for  a  month,  that  the  children  might  earn 
money  during  the  daffodil  harvest,  the  boys  by 
picking  flowers,  the  girls  by  tying  them.  Threepence 
a  hundred  bunches  is  the  rate,  and  it  is  estimated 
that  during  these  busy  weeks  no  less  than  a  million 
and  a  half  of  flowers  are  picked  on  the  Islands  every 
day. 

But  no  one  hired  Jan.    He  was  a  solitary,  shy  boy, 

28 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

and  perhaps  people  forgot  him  ;  or  perhaps  the 
Treachers,  with  their  pension  and  their  military  post 
and  their  dignity  as  care-keepers  of  the  Star  Castle 
in  Her  Majesty's  name,  looked  upon  the  new  industry 
with  contempt.  Consequently  Jan  found  these 
weeks  the  loneliest  in  the  year,  and  on  this  spring 
morning  was  half  minded  to  rebel,  having  a  craze 
for  flowers. 

But  Dr.  Hervey  had  come  to  remind  him  of  his 
Latin  lesson.  The  weather  being  so  fine,  they 
decided  to  take  it  out  of  doors,  on  a  rock  a  little 
below  the  flagstaff — Jan's  favourite  perch ;  and 
there  on  the  slope  at  their  feet  they  found  Sergeant 
Archelaus  busy  with  his  turf-cutting  tool. 

"  Hullo,"  nodded  Sergeant  Archelaus.  "  Come  to 
talk  your  Latin  ?  Well,  here  's  a  piece  of  Latin 
for  ye  ?  "  He  spelled  out  the  word  letter  by  letter., 
"  U-b-i-q-u-e.     Now  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  Everywhere,"  said  the  boy  promptly.  He  was 
still  in  his  declensions,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  known  the  word  all  his  life  ;  and  yet  he  could 
not  remember  that  he  had  ever  inquired  or  been  told 
its  meaning. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  that  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Hervey. 

"  No— o." 

Jan  felt  confused.  He  could  not  explain — for  it 
seemed  silly — that  things  were  always  happening  to 
him  in  this  way. 

"  Everywhere  it  is,"  said  Sergeant  Archelaus. 
"  Tis  the  word  o'  the  R'yal  Artillery,   and  their 

29 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

place  is  the  right  o'  the  line.  What 's  Waterloo  to 
your  Everywhere  ?  .  .  .  I  remember  the  Com- 
mandant carving  out  these  very  letters.  When  he  'd 
finished  he  looks  up  and  says,  wi'  that  smile  o'  his, 
*  Everywhere,  Archelaus — and  we  two  be  here,  of 
all  places  !  " 

Dr.  Hervey  muttered  some  words  in  a  foreign 
tongue. 

"  What  you  say,  sir,  is  always  worth  listenin'  to, 
but  this  time  I  didn't  catch,"  said  Sergeant  Archelaus, 
leaning  on  his  turf-cutter. 

"  I  can  accept  the  compliment  for  once,  Archelaus, 
since  it  happens  that  I  was  quoting  an  old  Greek, 
who  said  that  '  of  illustrious  men  the  whole  earth 
is  a  sepulchre.'  " 

"  The  Commandant  was  never  illustrious,  sir,  as 
you  put  it." 

"  Remarkable,  then." 

"  No,  nor  remarkable.  An'  didn't  want  to  be.  He 
was  just  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  straight  as  a  die 
and  modest  as  a  maid,  and  we  didn't  wish  for  a  better." 

Dr.  Hervey  filled  his  pipe  gravely.  Dr.  Hervey 's 
degree,  by  the  way,  had  nothing  to  do  with  medicine. 
There  are  men  who  seek  out-of-the-way  spots,  such 
as  the  Islands,  to  hide  their  broken  lives,  and  Dr. 
Hervey  was  one.  He  had  been  a  Professor  of 
Theology  at  a  great  Catholic  University,  noted  there 
for  his  learning  and  his  caustic  tongue.  His  out- 
spokenness had  made  him  enemies,  and  these  (not 
without  excuse)  had  arraigned  a  book  of  his,  accusing 

30 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

it  of  "  Modernism."  It  had  ended — since  he  was 
obstinate  and  would  neither  explain  nor  retract — 
in  his  being  expelled  from  his  chair  and  laid  under 
excommunication.  The  expulsion  would  have  done 
him  no  irremediable  harm,  since  he  possessed  a  com- 
petence, and  moreover  had  made  a  name  to  command 
attention  for  whatever  he  chose  to  write.  But  the 
excommunication  crushed  him  ;  for,  like  many  a 
brusque  man,  he  was  sensitive,  and  like  many  a 
fatally  driven  inquirer,  he  had  a  deeper  love  of  the 
Church  and  sense  of  her  majesty  than  have  ninety- 
nine  in  a  hundred  who  pay  her  the  service  of  lip  and 
knee.  He  and  his  God  alone  knew  what  a  comfort 
during  the  first  bitterness  of  exile  it  had  been  to 
associate  with  the  Commandant,  so  simple  a  gentle- 
man, if  withal  somewhat  slow-witted,  a  holy  and 
humble  man  of  heart,  so  true  at  the  root,  so  patient 
of  his  own  disappointed  life,  so  helpful  of  other  men. 

"  You  didn't  wish  for  a  better  while  you  had  the 
best,"  said  Dr.  Hervey,  lighting  his  pipe  very 
deliberately. 

Jan  watched  the  puffs  of  tobacco  smoke.  He  owed 
his  life  to  the  man  they  were  discussing,  and  he  could 
only  suppose  that  they  must  owe  him  a  grudge  for 
it  in  return.  Sergeant  Archelaus,  indeed — whose 
temper  did  not  improve  with  age — had  more  than, 
once  hinted  that,  though  doubtless  Providence  had 
ordained  this  exchange  of  two  lives,  he  for  his  part 
could  not  approve  it. 

"  I  don't  want  to  speak  irreverent,  sir,  but  seemin5* 

3i 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

to  me  th'  Almighty  must  get  a  twinge,  lookin'  down 
'pon  this  plat  o'  turf.  Everywhere — Look  ye,  here 
the  good  gentleman  carves  it  out,  accusin'  nobody, 
writin'  down  no  more  'n  his  deserts  ;  and  him  to 
spend  his  life  in  this  God-forsaken  hole  which  is 
next  to  Nowhere,  and  end  by  losin'  it  for  a  child 
from  Nowhere  at  all." 

"  That  is  no  way  to  talk,"  said  Dr.  Hervey  sternly, 
after  a  glance  at  the  boy,  who,  gazing  out  over  the 
sea,  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"  A  man  must  speak  his  thoughts,  Doctor." 

"It  depends  how  and  when  he  speaks  'em."  If 
Dr.  Hervey,  in  his  own  career,  had  always  re- 
membered this  !  "  But  what  does  Everywhere  mean 
to  the  best  of  us  finite  men  ?  Your  John  Wesley  said, 
*  All  the  world  is  my  parish,'  and  a  man  as  wise  might 
answer,  '  Then  my  parish  is  all  the  world.'  " 

"  Good  mornin',  all !  "  interrupted  a  voice. 

The  new-comer  was  P.C.  Epaminondas  Ward 
(locally  'Paminondas),  sole  policeman  of  the  Islands, 
sexton,  too,  of  St.  Lide's,  town-crier,  bill-poster  and 
public  official  in  general  of  Garland  Town.  "  Good 
mornin',  sir !  "  He  touched  his  helmet  to  Dr.  Hervey. 
"  You  '11  excuse  my  breakin'  in  on  your  talk  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  It  's  a  thing  I  hate  to  do.  There  's  nothing  like 
a  good  talk,  and  a  man  gets  so  few  opportunities  in 
the  Force."  Constable  'Paminondas  was  notoriously 
the  first  gossip  in  Garland  Town.  "  But  what  might 
you  ha'  been  discussin',  making  so  bold  ?  " 

32 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

"  Nothing  against  Her  Majesty's  peace,  Constable, 
I  assure  you,"  answered  Dr.  Hervey  gravely.  "  In 
point  of  fact,  we  were  exercised  over  the  difference 
between  Everywhere  and  Nowhere,  and  I  was  trying 
to  persuade  Sergeant  Archelaus  that  '  here '  is 
'  everywhere  '  to  a  sensible  man." 

"  That  's  true  enough  if  you  take  ME,"  agreed 
Taminondas,  adding  modestly,  "  But  perhaps  you  '11 
say  that  I  'm  an  exception  ?  " 

Dr.  Hervey  muttered  something  polite. 

"  I  'm  a  thoughtful  man,  as  by  nature,  sir,"  went 
on  the  Constable,  "  and  you  'd  be  astonished  what 
thoughts  occur  to  me  by  night,  when  I  goes  poking 
around  and  all  the  rest  o'  the  world  laid  asleep. 
F'r  instance,  I  climb  to  the  top  o'  the  hill  here,  and 
'tis  midnight  as  you  might  say,  in  a  manner  of 
speakin'.  Midnight  it  is,  and  all  around  the  Islands 
the  great  sea-lights  shinin' — fixed  white  low  down 
on  the  Monk,  white  revolvin'  on  St.  Ann's,  North 
Island  winkin'  like  a  great  red  eye,  white  flashes 
from  the  Stones,  red-white-red-white  from  the 
Wolf,  not  to  mention  the  Longships  an'  the  south- 
east sky  runnin'  in  flickers  from  the  Lizard,  like  men 
shaking  a  double  whip.  '  There  you  go,  all  of  ye,' 
I  tells  myself,  '  warning  mankind  that  here  be  the 
Islands.  And  what  be  the  Islands,'  says  I,  '  at  the 
moment  to  all  intents  an'  purposes  but  me,'  Pami- 
nondas  Ward,  with  a  bull's-eye  at  my  navvle  more 
or  less ?  '  " 

'  There,    Archelaus  !  "     Dr.    Hervey    turned    in 

33 
8 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

triumph  :  but  Sergeant  Archelaus,  after  first  spitting 
wide,  had  resumed  his  turf-trimming. 

"  Now,  maybe  you  're  wondering  what  brings  me 
here  ?  "  suggested  the  Constable.  Meeting  with  no 
response,  he  continued,  "  Well,  I  don't  mind  telling 
you.  It  concerns  the  boy  John  Smith,  in  the  form  of 
a  letter  from  her  Ladyship.  Her  Ladyship  sends  word 
that  Young  Matthey  Hender,  on  Brefar,  wants  an  extry 
hand  this  fine  season  for  the  daffodil  pickin',  and  John 
Smith  is  to  go.     I  've  just  informed  the  Treachers." 

"  Ho  ?  "  Sergeant  Archelaus  paused  again  and 
looked  up.     "  What  did  Treacher  say  ?  " 

"  He  made  a  communication  to  me "  began 

'Paminondas  in  his  best  Petty  Sessions  manner. 

"  D d  your  eyes,  I  shouldn'  wonder  ?  ' 

It  should  be  mentioned  here  that  the  attitude  of 
the  garrison  towards  the  civil  government  was 
traditionally  hostile. 

"In  a  general  way,"  said  Constable  'Paminondas 

magnanimously,  "  a  man  may  d n  my  eyes  or 

he  may  not,  as  the  case  may  be,  and  I  takes  it  from 
whence  it  comes.  The  Force,  in  a  manner  of  speakin', 
is  accustomed  to  such  misrepresentation,  and  imper- 
vious, if  I  make  myself  clear.  But  as  touching  her 
Ladyship's  order  Treacher  saw  'twas  no  use  kickin' 
against  the  pricks,  an'  behaved  himself  conformably, 
as  you  might  put  it  in  toto.  Which  the  upshot  is, 
as  between  you  and  me,  that  John  Smith  is  to  be 
sailed  over  to  Brefar  to-morrow  afternoon  at 
4  p.m.,  and  start  pickin'  daffodils." 

34 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

"  Well,  lad,  that  puts  an  end  to  Latin  for  a  time," 
said  Dr.  Hervey,  stopping  down  the  tobacco  in  his 
pipe  with  a  useful  forefinger. 

The  boy  did  not  answer ;  could  not  for  the  moment 
return  his  look.  It  would  have  been  ungrateful  to 
confess  the  truth,  that  he  longed  to  escape  and  take 
his  place  among  the  children  as  one  of  them.  Here, 
on  St.  Lide's,  he  mingled  with  the  children  in  school, 
but  always  as  one  set  mysteriously  apart.  He 
adored  the  sight  of  them,  but  could  make  no  friends  ; 
and  the  mere  fact  that  he  adored  and  saw  them  as  so 
many  bright  angels  playing  leap-frog  or  marbles  in 
the  streets  was  proof  that  he  could  never  be  one  of 
them.  As  counted  by  years  their  ages  and  his  might 
be  the  same  ;  in  fact  he  saw  them  through  older, 
different  eyes,  yet  yearned  all  the  while  to  join  them. 
In  Brefar,  picking  daffodils,  there  might  be  children 
to  understand  him  better.  Brefar,  at  all  events,  lay 
clear  out  towards  the  circumference  of  the  circle 
humming  him  in. 

The  Star  Castle,  where  he  lodged  with  the 
Treachers,  was  a  queer  little  octagonal  building,  set 
close  within  a  circumvallation  shaped  like  an  eight- 
pointed  star.  A  platform,  seven  feet  high,  ran  round 
the  interior  of  this  circumvallation  at  about  half  its 
height  of  sixteen  feet,  and  since  the  dwelling-house, 
twenty-one  feet  in  height,  was  separated  all  round 
from  the  platform  by  a  miserable  fosse  no  more  than 
four  feet  wide,  it  follows  that  the  lower  rooms  lay 
in  perpetual  gloom,  and  only  the  attic  chambers 

35 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

peeped  over  the  battlements  across  the  sea.  Still, 
and  although  its  eaves  were  low,  from  his  bedroom 
window  the  boy  could  watch  the  great  sea  lights 
flashing  or  occulting — protecting,  enclosing  him  in  a 
magic  circle  he  longed  to  pierce.  He  had  come  from 
Nowhere,  and  Nowhere  lay  somewhere  beyond. 

He  had  a  few  very  vague  notions  about  God.  The 
teacher  down  at  the  school  said  something  about 
God  every  morning  before  marking  the  register, 
and  the  children  regularly  sang  a  hymn. 

On  the  whole  he  felt  pretty  safe  about  God. 
But  "  O  God,  who  am  I  ?  "  was  the  child's  last 
thought  before  he  dropped  off  in  a  healthy  sleep. 
Towards  dawn  he  stirred  in  a  dream  uncomfortably, 
raised  himself  on  an  elbow,  turned  his  pillow,  damp 
with  tears,  and  snuggled  down  to  sleep  again. 


3« 


CHAPTER    III 

CHY-AN-CHY      FARM 

It  was  a  voyage  of  delight ;  better — yes,  far  better 
than  all  his  expectations. 

Sergeant  Treacher,  though  of  late  years  he  seldom 
went  on  the  sea,  could  handle  a  boat — as  the  Islanders 
allowed — "  tidy  well  for  a  soldier-man,"  having  been 
the  Commandant's  mate  on  many  a  fishing  ex- 
pedition. He  knew  all  the  rocks  and  shoals,  which 
everywhere  among  the  Islands  crop  up  in  the 
most  unexpected  places. 

The  boat  sped  along,  close  hauled  to  a  brisk  nor'- 
westerly  breeze,  across  the  roadstead,  past  the  length 
of  Saaron  Island,  and  through  the  entrance  of 
Cromwell's  Sound,  between  Iniscaw  and  Brefar. 
Jan,  perched  up  to  windward  on  an  old  military 
chest  which  contained  his  few  shirts  and  change  of 
clothes  (it  bore  the  inscription  "  R.A.  1959B,  Depot 
19.  Return  to  Store,"  in  white  letters  upon  lead 
colour),  drank  in  pure  joy  with  the  rush  of  air  on 
his  face. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  the  wind  fell  light  and 
headed  them  for  a  minute  or  two.  The  sail  shook  this 
side  and  that,  and  he  had  to  duck  his  dead  to  avoid 
the  boom. 

37 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

"  Slip  over  to  leeward  here  "  said  the  Sergeant  as 
the  boat  lost  way.  "  Peek  your  head  over-side,  an' 
maybe  I  '11  show  ye  something." 

Jan  obeyed,  and  peeping  over,  was  surprised  to 
see  a  rocky  ledge  close  below  him.  The  weed  on  it 
floated  within  a  foot  or  so  of  the  surface. 

"  Now,  watch  !  "  commanded  the  Sergeant. 

Picking  up  a  boat-hook,  he  jabbed  the  point  of  it 
smartly  down  amidst  the  weed.  At  once  a  long 
dark  form  shot  out,  darted  away  with  quick  gliding 
motion  and  was  lost,  Jan  could  not  tell  whither. 

"  See  anything  ?  " 

"  I — I  saw  a  snake." 

Sergeant  Treacher  chuckled. 

"  '  Snake,'  says  the  child.  "  What  do  you  know 
about  snakes  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  Jan  had  to  confess.  He  had  never 
to  his  knowledge  seen  one  before,  or  even  the  picture 
of  one,  for  there  were  no  picture  books  in  the  Star 
Castle.     Yet  he  felt  sure  that  this  had  been  a  snake. 

"  '  Snake  !  '  That  's  a  good  'un,  too  !  "  chuckled 
Sergeant  Treacher  again,  and  fell  silent,  being  a 
taciturn  man  by  habit. 

Jan  lifted  his  head  to  ask,  "  What  was  the  animal 
if  not  a  snake  ?  Couldn't  snakes  live  in  the  sea  ?  " 
when  his  eye>  fell  on  a  vision  which  hitherto  the 
boat's  sail  had  concealed  from  him ;  the  beautiful 
shore  of  Iniscaw,  with  the  Abbey  towers  rising  over 
a  mass  of  rhododendrons,  and  backed  by  tall  spires 
of  evergreen  trees ;  and  below  the  Abbey  an  inland 

38 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

lake  where  a  whole  herd  of  fawn-coloured  cattle 
stood  knee-deep,  some  gazing  at  the  boat,  others 
dipping  their  black  muzzles  to  drink. 

He  had  passed  into  Wonderland,  and  the  spell  was 
still  on  him  as  they  sailed  up  by  Brefar  shore,  close 
under  whole  fields  of  daffodils,  golden  in  the  Island's 
shadow — small  fields  fenced  around  with  dwarf 
hedges  of  escallonia  and  veronica.  But  the  flowers 
had  leapt  these  fences,  it  would  seem ;  for  colonies  of 
them  straggled  along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs  and  poured 
down  to  the  very  beaches — these  being  bulbs  dis- 
carded by  the  farmers  at  sorting  time  and  '  heaved 
to  cliff  '  to  take  their  own  chances. 

They  brought  the  boat  ashore  upon  a  beach 
where  Farmer  Hender — '  Young  Matthey  ' — stood 
awaiting  them.  He  had  a  grave,  not  unkindly  face, 
and  was  clad  in  earth-stained  blue  ;  but  what  im- 
pressed the  child  most  was  his  hat — a  top  hat  of 
rusty  black  silk,  extraordinarily  high  in  the  crown. 
Later  Jan  learned  that  this  hat  passed  from  father 
to  son,  and  was  worn  as  a  crown  of  authority  by  the 
reigning  head  of  Chy-an-Chy  Farm. 

The  farmer  took  charge  of  Jan,  and  shouldering 
his  box — for,  as  he  explained,  to-morrow  was 
'  steamer  day,'  and  no  hands  could  be  spared  from 
the  flower-picking — led  the  way  up  a  shelving  coombe 
to  the  farmstead,  a  grey  building  or  cluster  of  buildings 
fenced  with  tamarisks,  and  set  about  with  numerous 
glass-houses.  The  windows  of  these  houses  were 
banked  high  with  flowers,  but  over  this  screen  Jan,  as 

39 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

he  passed,  caught  sight  of  a  number  of  girls  at  work, 
bunching  and  tying  the  blooms.  The  door  of  the 
house-porch  stood  wide,  and  he  followed  the  farmer 
straight  into  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Hender  and  a 
short  middle-aged  servant  were  engaged  in  setting 
out  tea  for  the  workers. 

The  kitchen  was  large,  and  had  an  immense 
open  fireplace,  with  kettles  hanging  upon  long 
hooks,  and  crocks  mounted  on  brandises.  A  table, 
twenty  feet  or  so  in  length,  stood  close  against 
the  long  window-seat.  From  a  bacon-rack  fixed 
under  the  beams  of  the  ceiling  hung  hams  and 
sides  of  bacon  wrapped  in  dry  bracken  and  paper, 
with  strings  and  bags  of  parched  herbs — horehound, 
elder,  mugwort, — specifics  against  various  family 
ailments.  The  chimney-piece  was  flanked  on  the 
right  by  a  dresser,  on  the  left  by  a  dark  settle  ;  and 
on  the  settle  sat  two  very  old  men  and  an  old  woman, 
who  regarded  the  boy — all  three — with  scarce  so 
much  movement  as  the  blink  of  an  eyelid,  save  that 
the  old  woman's  head  nodded  quickly,  regularly,  as 
though  by  clockwork.  These  old  people  gave  him 
a  scare,  and  for  a  while  he  found  it  hard  to  believe 
them  alive. 

The  middle-aged  servant — who  had  a  large,  good- 
natured  face,  and  in  shape  resembled  a  full  sack 
tied  tightly  about  the  middle — came  bustling  forward 
and  offered  to  lend  the  '  maister  '  a  hand  to  carry 
the  box  upstairs. 

"  Aye,  do,"   said  the  mistress.     "  If  it  takes  ye 

40 


TOxM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

away  from  breakin'  cream-jugs,  it  '11  be  time  well 
spent.  .  .  .  Mary  Martha  broke  another  cream-jug: 
only  five  minutes  ago,  if  you  '11  believe  me." 

"  That 's  true,"  sighed  Mary  Martha,  still  broadly 
beaming.  "I  do  seem  to  be  very  unfortunate  in 
cream-jugs." 

"  Not  to  mention  the  four  cups  an'  saucers  you 
scat  to  atoms  on  their  way  to  the  Wesleyan 
tea." 

"I  am  very  unfortunate  in  cups  an'  saucers,'" 
wailed  Mary  Martha. 

"  Nor    the    cream-pan,    last    Wednesday    week." 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it,  missis  !  I  can't  bear 
no  more  !  " 

"  And  now,"  persisted  Mrs.  Hender,  addressing 
Jan,  "  it  's  candlesticks.  Last  Sunday  a  china  one 
— one  of  a  pair  that  I  bought  at  Penzance,  and  the 
dealer  said  they  were  exact  copies  of  the  pillars  in 
Solomon's  Temple  ;  an'  I  mended  that.  But  what 
was  the  use  ?  Yesterday  she  lets  fall  the  fellow  to 
'en " 

"I  do  seem  to  be  very  unfortunate  in  candle- 
sticks." Mary  Martha's  tone  of  despair  and  her 
jolly  smile  together  fairly  upset  the  boy. 

"  And  in  'most  everything  else,"  snapped  Mrs. 
Hender. 

"  You  wouldn'  think,"  she  said  next  minute,  as 
Jan's  box  went  bumping  up  the  stairs,  Mary  Martha 
knocking  her  end  of  it  against  the  balusters,  the  wall, 
the  edges  of  the  treads, — "  you  'd  never  think  that 

4i 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

woman  had  put  up  a  twenty-pound  tombstone  over 
her  late  husband — now  would  you  ?  " 

It  did  seem  astonishing  ;  and  so  Jan  agreed,  still 
with  a  nervous  glance  at  the  old  folks  on  the  settle, 
whose  faces  continued  impassive,  as  though  they 
neither  heard  nor  saw. 

Five  minutes  later  the  work-people  from  the  glass- 
houses came  trooping  into  tea.  They  crowded 
round  the  long  table  and  upon  forms  by  the  hearth, 
where  the  men  sat  with  mugs  balanced  on  one 
knee  and  on  the  other  a  thick  slice  of  bread  and 
butter  or  a  hunk  of  saffron  cake.  Jan  tried  to 
•count.  The  company  numbered  thirty-six  or  thirty- 
seven  ;  he  could  not  be  sure,  for  he  had  been  told  to 
squeeze  himself  among  the  young  people  on  the 
window -seat,  and  their  chatter  made  counting 
difficult. 

On  his  right  sat  a  child  of  about  his  own  age,  who 
told  him  that  her  name  was  Annet,  and  that  she 
had  two  sisters  and  a  brother.  She  pointed  them 
out.  The  sisters  were  called  Linnet  and  Bennet ; 
the  brother  she  explained  "  just  had  to  be  Mark." 

Jan  asked  why  ;  for  a  study  of  the  boy's  face, 
which  was  dark  of  complexion  and  somewhat  heavy, 
gave  him  no  clue.  Annet  indicated  the  old  people, 
who  had  been  led  forward  from  the  settle  and  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  board,  where  they  sat  chewing 
slowly  like  ruminant  animals.  That 's  great-gran'- 
father  Matthey  ;  he  's  Old  Matthey,  and  ninety-four 
last    birthday.       And    thai  's     Un'    Matthey,     Old 

42 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

Matthey's  son — and  my  gran'father,  of  course — 
with  Ami'  Deb  next  to  him.  She  's  his  wife,  an* 
father's  mother.  Father  is  Young  Matthey.  That 
big  man  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  is  father's 
eldest ;  we  call  him  Little  Matthey.  He  was  married 
two  years  back,  and  Sister  Liza — we  call  Little 
Matthey's  wife  Sister  Liza — is  upstairs  putting  the 
baby  to  bed,  and  we  call  him  Matthey's  Matthey. 

Jan  agreed  with  her  that  for  one  family  this  was 
plenty  of  Mattheys,  and  that  a  Mark  among  them 
was  a  change  at  all  events. 

"  It  must  feel  funny,"  said  Annet,  "  to  be  like  you, 
and  have  no  father  nor  mother  nor  any  belongings." 

Jan  looked  at  her  quickly,  uneasily.  But  she  was 
serious,  it  seemed,  and  did  not  mean  to  tease  him. 
At  once — how  do  children  learn  these  ways  ? — he 
began  to  put  on  airs  and  to  look  darkly  romantic. 

'  Don't  !  '  he  protested,  sinking  his  voice  to  a 
confidential  whisper.  The  success  of  it  surprised 
him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  never  felt  any 
deep  yearning  over  his  unknown  parents,  though 
his  yearning  for  an  answer  to  the  questions, 
"Who  am  I?"  "From  where  in  the  world  do  I 
come?"  was  persistent,  often  poignant,  sometimes 
keeping  him  awake  in  a  horror  of  emptiness,  of 
belonging  to  nowhere  .  .  .  But  this,  the  first 
romantic  adventure  of  his  life,  made  his  head  swim, 
and  he  played  up  to  it  by  being  false. 

Annet — she  was  a  dark  pretty  girl  with  really  beau- 
tiful eyelashes — found  him  'interesting,'  and  carried 

43 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

him  off  after  tea  to  the  glass-houses,  now  lit  with  oil 
lamps,  where  she  taught  him  the  simple  mysteries 
of  '  bunching  ' — setting  up  blooms  in  pyramidical 
bunches,  a  dozen  to  the  bunch,  with  room  for  each 
perianth  to  expand  ;  for  the  flowers  are  picked  in 
bud  while  it  is  possible,  kept  in  water  under  glass  until 
partly  open,  and  so  packed ;  the  wise  grower  timing 
them  to  reach  the  market  just  at  the  moment  of  their 
perfection.  Moreover,  he  thus  avoids  the  worst 
risk  of  the  February  storms  that  sweep  in  from  the 
Atlantic,  charged  with  brine,  spotting  the  open 
blooms  and  rendering  them  unsaleable. 

Annet  told  the  boy  all  this,  and  much  else  concern- 
ing the  daffodils,  while  her  small  hands  worked  away 
with  eleven  other  pairs  of  hands,  bunching  and  tying. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  glass-house  three  grown  girls 
were  packing  away  the  bunches  in  shallow  boxes 
of  various  sizes — three,  five,  or  six  dozen  to  the  box 
— and  at  the  head  of  the  table  where  they  worked 
stood  a  young  man  receiving  the  full  boxes,  nailing 
down  their  covers,  and  affixing  the  labels.  Twice, 
as  Jan  sat  and  watched,  Mary  Martha  came  bustling 
in  with  a  kettle,  for  the  water  in  which  the  flowers 
stood  before  being  packed  must  be  kept  tepid — this 
was  one  of  the  secrets  of  young  Farmer  Matthey's 
success  as  a  marketer.  And  whenever  the  door  of  the 
glass-house  opened,  the  boy  heard  the  tap-tap  of 
a  hammer  across  the  yard  from  an  outbuilding  where 
new  boxes  were  being  fashioned  and  nailed  together. 

"  You  may  try  your  hand,  if  you  will,"  said  Annet 

44 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

graciously.  "  Here  is  a  pair  of  scissors.  To-morrow, 
though,  father  '11  set  you  to  work  on  the  pickin' — 
that 's  the  boys'  work.  And  while  you  are  trying 
you  might  tell  me  a  story." 

"  A  story  ?  "  Jan  echoed  blankly.  "  But  I  don't 
know  any." 

"  Everyone  must  know  some  kind  of  story,"  said 
Annet  with  firmness.  "  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  King  and  a  Queen,  and  they  were  very  sorry 
because  they  had  no  children.  That's  how  you  begin." 

"  But  I  don't  see  how  it  goes  on,  if  they  had  no 
children — unless  they  go  on  being  sorry." 

"  Silly  !  Of  course  they  get  a  child  in  the  end, 
and  that  's  what  the  story  's  about.  Now  you  go 
on  from  there." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Jan,  and  began  desperately — "  Once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  King  and  a  Queen,  and  they 
were  very  sorry  because  they  had  no  children  ;  but 
of  course  they  got  a  child  in  the  end.  He — came  to 
them — in  a  boat " 

Annet  nodded. 

"  That 's  better." 

"  He  came  to  them  in  a  boat,"  repeated  Jan. 
"  On  the  way  he  looked  over  the  boat,  and  far  down 
in  the  sea  he  saw  a  snake  swimming." 

"  Now  you  're  inventing,"  said  Annet.  "  Well, 
never  mind  !     One  mustn't  believe  all  one  hears." 

"  But  I  saw  one  to-day,"  Jan  protested. 

"  Go  along  with  you — a  snake,  swimming  in  the 
sea !     Well,  let 's  hear  what  the  snake  said." 

45 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  He  didn't  say  anything.  Sergeant  Treacher 
pushed  a  boathook  down  among  the  seaweed " 

"  Who  's  Sergeant  Treacher  ?  " 

"  He — he  's  called  Treacher,  and  he  's  a  sergeant. 
He  lives  upon  Garrison  Hill  on  St.  Lide's,  along  with 
Mrs.  Treacher,  and  looks  after  the  Castle." 

"  How  does  he  come  into  the  story  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  comes  into  the  story  at 
all ;    at  least,  not  exactly,"  Jan  confessed. 

"  I  'm  tired  of  hearing  about  Sergeant  Treacher," 
said  Annet ;  "  and  I  don't  call  it  telling  a  story 
when  you  leave  me  to  do  all  the  talking.  But  I  must 
say,"  she  added  kindly,  "  you  've  made  up  that  bunch 
very  nicely,  if  it 's  your  first  try.  Who  taught  you 
to  make  that  pretty  knot  ?  " 

"  Sergeant  Treacher,"  the  boy  began  ;  but  at  this 
point  luckily  someone  called  out  from  the  far  end 
of  the  glass-house  that  the  boxes  were  all  finished. 
Fresh  boxes  would  be  ready  after  supper,  when  the 
elder  women  would  start  packing  again,  while  the 
children  went  off  to  bed.  So  they  trooped  back  to 
the  kitchen. 

At  supper  Annet  could  not  help  being  mischievous. 
She  told  the  children  near  that  Jan  on  his  way  to 
Brefar  had  seen  a  snake  in  the  sea;  whereat  he  blushed 
furiously,  which  set  the  girls  giggling,  while  an  ugly 
tow-headed  boy  across  the  table  burst  into  a  guffaw, 
showing  the  gaps  in  his  teeth. 

Mrs.  Hender,  hearing  the  mirth,  glanced_down  the 
board. 

46 


TOM    TIDDLER'S     GROUND 

"  What 's  amiss  down  there  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Annet,  Annet,  you  're  not  teasing  the  child,  I 
hope  ? 

"  He  says  he  's  seen  a  snake,  missus,"  called  out 
the  tow-headed  boy. 

"  Lor'  mercy  !     Where  ?  " 

"  In  the  sea  here,  off  Brefar,"  with  another 
guffaw.  "  Brought  up  'pon  St.  Lide's,  an'  not  to 
know  a  conger  !  " 

"  Aw,  a  conger,  was  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hender. 
"  Yes,  now,  I  dersay  'twas  a  conger  he  saw.  They  're 
very  like,  now  you  come  to  mention  it,"  she  added, 
seeing  poor  Jan's  confusion. 

He  could  not  understand  the  laughter,  but  it 
overwhelmed  him  with  shame  and  vexation  so  that 
he  wished  he  could  slip  beneath  the  table,  and  lower, 
till  the  earth  covered  him. 

"  There 's  snakes  on  the  Main,  now;  real  adders 
and  vipers ;  an'  that 's  one  reason  why  I  never 
could  bring  myself  to  live  in  those  parts.  The 
thought  came  over  me  only  last  time  I  was  over  to 
Penzance.  Half-way  up  Market  Jew  Street  it  came 
over  me  with  a  rush,  and  there  and  then  a  funny 
feelin'  all  round  the  bottom  of  my  skirt,  till  I  heard 
a  rude  man  askin'  what  was  the  price  of  calves 
'pon  the  Islands." 

"  There  was  a  Snake  over  here  once  upon  a  time — 
over  here  'pon  the  Islands,"  broke  in  a  high, 
quavering  voice. 

It  proceeded  from  the  old  man,  Un'  Matthey,  and 

47 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

he  spoke  up  as  if  a  spring  had  been  started  somewhere 
within  him. 

Mrs.  Hender  rapped  the  tab]e  with  the  back  of 
a  fork. 

"  Hush  'ee,  all,  now,  if  you  please  !  Un'  Matthey 
-wants  to  tell  a  story." 

Conticuerc  omnes  intentique  ora  tenebant. 


48 


CHAPTER    IV 

ux'    matthey's   story 

'  There  was  a  Snake  over  'pon  St.  Lide's,  one  time," 
said  the  old  man,  still  in  his  high  quaver,  staring 
straight  across  the  table ;  and  Aim'  Deb,  his  old  wife, 
kept  nodding  her  head  beside  him  as  if  confirming 
the  tale  from  the  start. 

"  — The  Snake  lived  in  the  middle  of  the  Island,  in 
Holy  Vale,  and  there  he  lorded  it  free  an'  easy  till 
St.  Lide  came  along  and  shut  him  up  in  a  bag,  out  o' 
harm's  way.  After  a  time  St.  Lide  took  an'  went  the 
way  of  all  flesh,  forgetting  all  about  the  Snake  an' 
the  bag,  that  he  'd  left  hangin'  from  the  branch  of  an 
apple-tree. 

"  In  those  days  St.  Lide's  was  a  proper  wilderness. 
All  the  folks  that  counted — kings  and  queens  an' 
such-like — lived  over  this  side,  'pon  Brefar  here  and 
Saaron." 

'  Hear  him !  "  put  in  Mrs.  Hender.  "  An'  Saaron 
nowadays  but  a  land  o'  desolation  !  Well  did  the 
Psalmist  say,  '  What  ups  an'  downs  in  the  world 
there  be  !  '" 

'  One  day,  hundreds  o'  years  after,  a  Saaron 
went  over  to  St.  Lide's  to  shoot  rabbits.  He  came 
on  the  bag  hangin'  from  the  tree,  an'  saw  the  inside 

49 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

of  it  movin'.  '  Hullo  !  '  says  he,  '  some  careless 
fellow  has  left  a  bag  o'  ferrets  behind  him.  This  '11 
come  in  very  handy.'  He  whips  out  his  knife,  cuts 
open  the  neck  o'  the  bag,  an'  forth  jumps  a  mons'rous 
big  Snake,  an'  winds  itself  about  his  neck  ready 
to  strangle  him.  '  Hullo !  '  says  the  Saaron  man, 
'  thee  wou's'n't  kill  me,  I  hope  ?  '  '  Why  not  ?  ' 
said  the  Snake.  '  Why,  seemin'  to  me,  you  owe 
me  your  liberty,  not  to  say  your  life.'  '  That  's 
true  enough,'  says  the  Snake.  'A  wise  man  shut  me  up 
in  that  there  bag,  where  for  these  hundreds  o'  years 
I  've  been  perishin'  of  hunger.'  '  Then  how  in  the 
world  could  you  be  so  ongrateful  as  for  to  kill  me  ?  ' 
says  the  Man  from  Saaron.  '  Well,  that  's  a  pretty 
tale,  I  must  say,'  answers  the  Snake.  '  Hungry  I 
am,  and  ongrateful  I  own  myself  ;  but  for  ongrateful- 
ness  where  's  the  like  of  man  ?  '  '  Let  some  judge 
decide  atween  us,'  says  the  Man  from  Saaron. 

"  The  Snake  consented,  an'  they  set  off  together 
to  hunt  up  a  judge.  The  first  they  met  was  a 
Tree,  an'  they  stated  their  quarrel.  '  Now,  O  Tree, 
judge  atween  us,'  says  the  Man.  Says  the  Tree, 
'  No  trouble  about  that.  In  the  summers  I  let  man 
cool  himself  an'  his  flocks  under  my  branches,  but 
soon  as  winter  comes  he  cuts  the  same  down  for  fuel. 
Nothing  in  the  world  so  ongrateful  as  man.  Take 
an'  throttle  en,'  says  the  Tree. 

"  The  Man  from  Saaron  cried  out  for  another  judge. 
'  Very  well,'  the  Snake  agreed,  an'  they  came  to 
Sheep.     '  You    Sheep,    decide    atween    us.'      '  No 

5o 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

trouble  at  all,'  says  the  Sheep.  '  I  gave  that  man  my 
fleece  to  cover  his  back.  In  return  he  robbed  my 
lambs  from  me,  and  to-morrow  he  '11  turn  me  over 
to  the  slaughterer.     Throttle  en,'  says  the  Sheep. 

"  But  the  Man  from  Saaron  cried  out  for  a  fairer 
judge.  They  came  to  a  Spring.  She  fairly  choked 
when  they  put  her  the  question.  '  I  've  a  hundred 
daughters,'  she  said,  '  that  in  pure  good  natur' 
turned  this  fellow's  mills,  washed  his  flocks,  an'  laid 
bare  their  ore  for  him  along  the  bank.  In  return 
he  defiled  them.     Throttle  en,  I  say,  an'  quick  !  ' 

"  Still  the  Man  cried  for  another  judge.  They 
came  to  a  Rabbit,  an'  stated  the  cause.  The  Rabbit 
said  to  hisself,  '  Here  's  a  ticklish  business,  judgin' 
atween  a  Man  and  a  Snake,'  and  rubbed  his  nose 
for  a  bit  to  gain  time.  '  You  've  come  to  a  mean 
critter,  an'  poor  of  understandin','  says  he  after  a 
while.  '  Would  you  mind  settin'  out  the  quarrel 
from  the  start  ?  '  '  Well,  to  begin  with,'  says  the 
Snake,  '  the  Man  found  me  in  this  here  bag.'  '  Oh, 
but  you  '11  excuse  me,'  says  the  Rabbit,  looking 
sideways  for  fear  to  meet  the  Snake's  eye,  '  in  that 
tiny  bag,  did  you  say  ?  '  '  I  'm  not  accustomed  to 
have  my  word  doubted  by  rabbits,'  says  the  Snake, 
'  but  I  '11  forbear  a  bit  yet,  and  give  ye  the  proof.' 
He  coiled  himself  back  into  the  bag.  The  Rabbit 
wasn'  sayin'  anythin',  but  his  eyelids  went  flickety- 
flink,  an'  the  Man  from  Saaron  didn'  miss  the  hint ! 
He  sprang  fore  'pon  the  bag  an'  closed  the  neck  o'  it 
with  a  twist !  " 


5i 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Here  the  old  man  struck  his  hands  together  and 
looked  round  on  his  audience  with  a  knowing  smile 
of  triumph.  His  face  for  the  moment  had  grown 
animated. 

The  company,  too,  clapped  their  hands  as  they 
laughed. 

"  Bravo,  Un'  Matthey  !  "  they  cried. 

As  Annet  applauded,  Jan  plucked  her  by  the  sleeve. 

"  But  that 's  not  the  end  of  the  story,"  he 
objected. 

"Eh?" 

"  There  's  more  to  come — more  about  the  Rabbit 

"  A  lot  you  know  about  stories  !  Why,  not  an 
hour  ago " 

"  What 's  the  child  saying  ?  "  asked  her  mother, 
who  had  taken  the  opportunity  to  step  down  to 
where  the  children  sat,  and  was  making  forward  for 
an  empty  centre-dish  to  replenish  it  with  thick  bread 
and  butter. 

"  He  says  Un'  Matthey  hasn't  finished  yet." 

"  Well,  and  that  's  true  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Hender, 
who  had  heard  the  story  many  times.  "  But  how 
came  you  so  wise,  little  man  ?  " 

Jan  could  not  tell.  He  had  a  queer  sense — it  had 
been  haunting  him  ever  since  he  landed  and  the 
farmer  shouldered  his  box — that  everything  happen- 
ing had  happened  to  him  before,  somewhere,  at  some 
time.  This  was  impossible,  of  course ;  but  with 
^nnet  especially  he  had  once  or  twice  forestalled  the 

52 


TOM    TIDDLER'S     GRO'JND 

very  words  she  would  say  next,  and  then,  as  she  said 
them,  the  trick  of  her  voice,  some  movement  of  the 
hands,  some  turn  in  the  poise  of  her  head,  came  back 
as  parts  of  a  half-remembered  lesson.  In  just  the 
same  way  scraps  of  Un'  Matthey's  story  had  come 
back  as  it  might  be  out  of  some  dream  the  boy  had 
dreamed  and  forgotten. 

But  meanwhile  Un'  Matthey  had  resumed  : — 

"  The  Man  from  Saaron  went  home-along,  an' 
the  Rabbit  sat  by  his  hole  an'  smiled  to  hisself, 
thinkin'  how  clever  he  'd  been.  He  was  still  smilin' 
there  next  day,  when  he  looks  up  an'  sees  the  Man 
comin'  back,  an'  with  a  bag  in  his  hand — either  the 
same  bag  or  another.     .     .     . 

"  '  Hullo  !  '  thinks  the  Rabbit,  '  he  's  bringin'  me 
a  gift  for  my  wise  judgment.  Well,  I  deserve  one. 
But,'  says  he,  '  gratitude  has  a  knack  o'  shrinkin',' 
for  he  saw  that  whatever  the  bag  held  'twas  of  no 
great  size.  The  Man  gripped  it  half-way  down. 
The  Man  came  close. 

"  '  Good  mornin','  says  he.  '  Yesterday  I  was  in 
too  much  of  a  hurry  to  stay  an'  thank  you.  A 
second  Solomon  you  be,  an'  no  mistake.' 

"  '  In  justice,  as  in  other  things,  a  body  can  but 
do  his  best,'  answers  the  Rabbit,  modest-like. 

"  '  You  deserve  a  reward,  anyway,'  says  the  Man. 

"  '  Justice  is  blind,  my  lord,'  says  the  Rabbit, 
edgin'  up  towards  the  bag. 

"  The  Man  opened  it ;  out  jumped  a  ferret,  and 
elk!" — here  Un'  Matthey  made  a  sudden  uncanny 

53 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

noise  in  his  throat — "  in  two  twos  Master  Rabbit  lay 
stretched  out  dead  as  a  doornail.  The  Man  from 
Saaron  kicked  the  ferret  away  off  the  body. 

"  '  He  's  very  properly  punished  !  '  said  the  Man 
from  Saaron.  '  Justice  ought  to  be  without  fear  or 
favour,  an'  his  wasn'  neither.  But  he  '11  make  very 
good  eatin.'  " 

Un'  Matthey  had  scarcely  finished  and  been 
applauded  when  Young  Matthey  called  for  prayers. 
The  farmer  had  pulled  out  his  watch  once  or  twice 
during  the  story,  for  in  the  daffodil  season  business 
is  business.  He  himself  read  a  chapter  from  the  Bible 
— to-night  it  was  the  story  of  the  Shunamite's  son — 
and  afterwards  put  up  an  extempore  prayer  when  the 
family  had  dropped  on  their  knees — all  but  the  three 
old  people,  who  sat  in  a  row  and  sat  with  hands 
spread  palm  down  on  to  the  board,  thumb  touching 
thumb,  much  as  children  play  the  game  of  '  Up 
Jenkins  !  ' 

The  young  folks  on  the  window-seat  slipped  down 
and  knelt  with  their  faces  to  it.  This,  of  course, 
brought  Jan's  small  legs  calves  upward  well  hidden 
under  the  table,  and  of  a  sudden,  midway  in  the 
prayer,  a  sharp  pinch  almost  made  him  cry  aloud 
with  pain.  This  was  a  trick  played  on  him  by  the 
tow-headed  boy,  who  had  dodged  beneath  the  form 
on  the  opposite  side,  and  as  he  pinched  uttered  a 
derisive  hiss,  meant  to  resemble  a  snake's  ;  but  the 
trick  was  by  no  means  a  success,  for  the  hiss  itself 
ended  in  a  squeak  as  a  hand  reached  out  after  the 

54 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

joker,  caught  him  by  the  ankle,  and  twisted  it  with 
a  sharp  wrench. 

The  farmer's  prayer,  after  invoking  God's  blessing 
on  the  household  in  general,  went  on  to  ask  a  number 
of  things  in  particular.  It  entreated :  "  That  Thy 
loving  care  may  go  with  the  steamer  to-morrow  and 
prosper  her,"  whereupon  all  answered  "  Amen."  It 
glanced  at  Mary  Martha  :  "  That  it  may  please  Thee 
to  lighten  the  burden  of  one  in  our  midst  lately 
afflicted  with  breakages."  Jan  himself  was  not  let 
off  :  "  And  that  Thy  mercy  may  be  tender  upon  a 
newcomer,  a  child  to-day  brought  to  the  circle  of 
these  Thy  servants."  It  took  the  farmer's  fields  in 
their  order,  particularising  their  crops  (whether 
Emperors,  M.J.  Berkeley s  or  Omatuses),  and  separ- 
ately asking  favours  for  each.  In  short,  it  was  just 
such  a  prayer  as  that  of  the  Athenians,  commanded 
by  Marcus  Aurelius  :  "  Rain,  rain,  dear  Zeus,  down 
on  the  ploughed  fields  of  the  Athenians  and  on  the 
plains."  "  In  truth  (says  the  Emperor)  we  ought 
not  to  pray  at  all,  or  to  pray  in  this  direct  and  noble 
fashion." 

On  its  conclusion  the  farmer,  rising  from  his  knees 
with  the  rest,  looked  down  along  the  board  sternly 
with  a  masterful  eye,  and  demanded  to  know  "  Who 
it  was  just  now  makin'  light  of  our  supplications 
under  the  table  ?  "  There  was  a  constrained 
silence — Young  Farmer  Matthey,  not  a  doubt  of  it, 
was  master  in  his  own  household — until  the  tow- 
headed  boy  stood  up,  yellow  with  fright,  looking  as 

55 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

though  he  desired  the  earth  to  open  at  his  feet  and 
cover  him.  At  the  same  moment  a  dark,  good- 
looking  lad  seated  beside  him — a  boy  probably  two 
years  his  senior — glanced  across  at  Jan  with  a  smile. 

"  Billing's  boy,  is  it  ?  "  said  Young  Matthey 
sternly.  "  Then  you,  Billing's  boy,  will  step  over 
yonder  and  stand  with  your  face  to  the  corner  while 
the  others  pass  out." 

The  others  passed  out  there  and  then — the  elders 
to  the  glass-houses  to  finish  the  packing,  the 
youngsters  to  bed. 

To  Jan  was  assigned  a  small  attic  chamber,  barely 
furnished,  clean  as  a  pin,  smelling  potently  of 
onions  that  had  been  kept  to  dry  the  winter  through 
on  its  naked  floor.  From  its  windows,  between  the 
eaves,  he  looked  straight  out  upon  the  red  sea-light 
on  North  Island,  and  just  within  the  edge  of  the 
frame,  as  he  lay  down  in  his  bed,  the  far  Stones 
Lightship  repeated  its  quick  three  flashes  of  white. 

They  were  the  same  lights  he  had  watched  from  his 
garret  window  on  St.  Lide's  ;  but  they  were  nearer, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  nearer  the  edge  of 
the  spell.  He  dropped  asleep.  At  intervals  in  his 
dreams  he  saw  the  face  of  the  dark,  good-looking 
boy  smiling  at  him  across  the  table,  while  still 
through  his  dreams,  until  midnight  and  after,  sounded 
the  tap-tap  of  a  hammer  from  the  outhouse,  nailing 
boxes  for  the  daffodils. 


56 


CHAPTER     V 

TOM   TIDDLER'S   GROUND 

"  Here  we  are  on  Tom  Tiddler's  ground 

Picking  up  gold  and  silver  ; 
Daisies  and  lilies 

And  daffadownlilies — 
O,  who  wouldn't  be  a  delver  !  " 

Next  morning  the  farmer  took  him  out  to  the  fields, 
having  first  provided  him  with  a  pair  of  small 
leggings,  for  some  rain  had  fallen  during  the  night, 
and  wading  among  the  flowers  would  be  wet  work. 

They  came  to  a  strip  of  ground,  in  size  about  an 
acre,  set  about  with  a  low  hedge  of  veronica  and 
ablaze  with  yellow  trumpet  daffodils — yes,  ablaze, 
though  most  of  the  buds  were  but  half  open.  Half 
a  dozen  boys  were  already  at  work  here,  headed  (to 
Jan's  delight)  by  the  brown,  smiling  boy  ;  for  most 
of  the  men  of  the  farm  had  started  before  daybreak 
to  row  Young  Matthey's  barge,  laden  with  flower- 
boxes,  down  to  the  landing  on  the  south  point  of 
Iniscaw,  where  the  Lady's  launch  would  take  them 
in  tow  across  the  Sound  to  St.  Lide's  Pier,  under  the 
lee  of  which  the  steamer  lay. 

The  farmer,  having  briefly  instructed  Jan  what 
flowers  to  choose,  how  to  pluck  them  low  down  by 

57 


NEWS     FROM    THE    DUCHY 

the  base  with  a  sharp  snap,  and  how  to  basket  them 
when  plucked,  assigned  him  his  row  and  left  him  in 
charge  of  Dave,  as  he  called  the  brown  boy. 

The  field  lay  on  the  slope  above  the  cliffs  in  a 
sheltered  hollow,  facing  southward  ;  so  that,  over  the 
sheets  of  daffodils  and  over  the  dwarf  hedge,  you  saw 
the  blue  water  of  the  archipelago,  right  away  south 
to  St.  Lide's  and  to  Garrison  Hill  with  the  Star 
Castle  crowning  it,  and  at  its  base  (so  clear  was  the 
morning)  the  smoke  of  the  steamer  as  she  lay  getting 
up  steam.  The  sunshine,  falling  warm  on  the  wet 
flowers,  drew  from  them  the  rarest  fragrance.  (They 
were  trumpet  daffodils,  as  has  been  said,  and  nine  out 
of  ten  of  us  would  have  called  them  odourless ;  but 
little  Jan,  it  was  to  be  discovered,  had  a  sense  of 
smell  keen  almost  as  a  wild  animal's.)  The  frag- 
rance mingled  with  the  wafted  brine  of  the  sea,  and 
between  them — what  with  the  breeze  and  the  myriad 
heads  of  gold  it  set  nodding  and  the  spirit  of  youth 
dancing  inside  of  him— they  flooded  the  child's  soul 
with  happiness — a  happiness  so  poignant  that  once, 
straightening  himself  up  in  a  pause  of  the  picking, 
he  felt  his  eyes  brim  with  tears,  through  which  the 
daffodils  danced  in  a  mist.  Brushing  the  back  of  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  he  glanced  shyly  across  at  Dave, 
fearful  lest  Dave  had  detected  his  weakness. 

And  Dave  had,  but  set  it  down  to  the  wrong 
cause. 

"  Takes  ye  in  the  back,  first-along,  hey  ?  "  said 
Dave  kindly.     "  Never  mind,  little  'un  ;    within  a 

53 


TOM    TIDDLER'S     GROUND 

week  you  '11  get  over  the  cramps,  an'  it 's  not  bad 
ye  're  doin',  for  a  beginner." 

Jan  blessed  him  for  misunderstanding.  What  a 
splendid  fellow  Dave  was — so  brown  and  strong  ! 
But  Dave,  though  he  could  smile  most  of  his  time, 
had  very  little  mouth-speech,  as  they  say  on  the 
Islands.  He  contented  himself  with  showing  Jan 
how  to  arrange  his  flowers  in  the  "  maund ':  or 
basket — they  had  one  maund  between  them,  and 
were  working  down  two  parallel  rows — and  he  did  it 
mostly  by  dumb  show.  Once,  however,  he  called 
out,  standing  up  and  pointing — 

"  There  she  goes  !  " 
— and  all  the  boys  paused  for  a  minute  and  gazed 
southward  at  the  steamer  heading  out  from  St.  Lide's 
Quay  for  the  Main.  As  he  watched  her,  the  old 
longing  came  upon  Jan  with  a  rush  ;  the  old  question, 
as  a  sudden  cloud  upon  his  glee. 

They  fell  to  work  again.  But  a  few  minutes  later 
word  arrived  that  Dave  must  attend  the  farmer 
in  an  upper  field,  where  he  had  an  ingenious  device 
of  forcing  some  rarer  bulbs  as  they  stood  by 
covering  them  with  small  portable  glass-houses 
mounted  on  wheels.  This  matured  the  plants  better 
than  the  old  way  of  transferring  them  to  boxes  and 
forcing  them  in  a  large  greenhouse  ;  but  the  glass- 
frames  needed  handling,  and  the  most  of  his  grown 
men  had  not  yet  returned  with  the  barge.  So  Dave 
was  requisitioned. 

He  had  no  sooner  left  than  the  industry  of  the 

59 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

boys  in  the  field  sensibly  slackened.  Jan,  bending 
over  the  row,  did  not  perceive  it,  and  was  rudely 
awakened  by  a  light  cuff  on  the  ear.  Above  him 
stood  the  tow-headed  boy,  grinning  and  showing  the 
gaps  in  his  teeth. 

"  Sneak  !  "  said  the  tow-headed  boy,  "  that  's  for 
telling  tales  on  me  last  night." 

A  sudden  fury  leapt  up  in  Jan.  He  wanted  to  kill 
the  tow-headed  boy — who  was  so  ugly  and  told  lies. 
Without  waiting  to  consider,  Jan  leapt  on  him,  and 
the  attack  was  so  sudden  that  both  rolled  over  among 
the  dripping  daffodils,  crushing  the  flowers  as  they 
rolled.  For  a  few  seconds  Jan  was  on  the  top,  and 
his  hands  felt  for  the  tow-headed  boy's  throat,  to  grip 
it ;   but  by-and-by  age  and  weight  prevailed. 

"  Little  devil,  I  '11  teach  you  !  " 

The  tow-headed  boy  first  clutched  the  nape  of 
his  neck  and  rubbed  his  face  into  the  soil,  then 
caught  at  one  of  the  writhing  arms  and  began 
to  twist  it. 

"  Now  sing  small,  little  devil  !  " 

"  I  won't,"  gasped  Jan,  almost  faint  with  pain. 
"  You  tell  lies,  and  are  ugly — ugly  !  " 

"  Hullo  !  " 

It  was  Dave's  voice,  and  Dave  descended  on  the 
scrimmage  like  a  young  god.  He  cuffed  the  two 
apart ;  but  Jan,  white  with  passion,  flew  again  at  his 
adversary,  and  had  to  be  caught  by  the  jacket-neck 
and  flung  among  the  wet  flowers. 

"  Little  spitfire  !  "   laughed  Dave,  after  doing  this 

60 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

gently  but  firmly.  "  Seemin'  to  me,  Ben  Lager,  this 
field  is'n  safe  for  you,  and  you  'd  better  come  along 
an'  help  with  the  glass  boxes.  Farmer  sent  me  down 
to  fetch  up  another  hand." 

So  the  tow-headed  boy  was  marched  off,  and  Jan, 
picking  himself  up,  fell  to  work  again.  He  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  never  in  his 
short  life  known  such  a  fit  of  rage,  and  it  affected 
him  like  an  ague.  For  a  full  hour  the  trembling 
lasted,  at  intervals  broken  by  a  sob  that  convulsed 
all  his  limbs. 

The  harvest  had  begun  late  this  year,  in  contrast 
with  last  season's,  when  picking  started  before  New 
Year's  Day  and  went  on  steadily  until  May  month. 
Up  to  the  opening  days  of  February  Young  Matthey 
had  carried  a  gloomy  face  about  his  fields,  consoling 
himself  with  market  reports  of  unusually  high  prices 
(due  to  severe  weather  in  the  South  of  France,  where 
the  gardens  of  his  trade  rivals,  the  Mediterranean 
growers,  had  lain  under  snow  for  three  weeks  on  end). 
Young  Matthey  ever  spoke  with  asperity  of  these 
distant  Frenchmen,  his  mind  confusing  them  in  a 
queer  fashion  with  what  he  had  read  in  newspapers 
concerning  Monte  Carlo.  He  imagined  them  at  the 
end  of  a  season,  when  he  banked  his  few  hard-earned 
pounds,  as  flocking  to  the  tables  with  large  sums  of 
money  (that  ought  by  rights  to  be  in  his  pocket),  and 
gambling  it  away  upon  roulette,  a  game  happily 
unknown  in  the  Islands.  Indeed,  the  Islanders 
knew  no  games  at  all.     Strange  to  say,  even  the 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

children   played  none — until  Jan  taught  them,   as 
vou  shall  hear. 

In  February  the  flowers  awoke  and  came  on  with 
a  rush.  The  previous  summer  had  been  a  hot  one, 
6aking  and  ripening  the  bulbs  in  the  ground  ;  but 
with  November  had  come  a  spell  of  cold,  and 
an  obstinate  one,  lasting  through  December  and 
January  and  holding  (as  the  farmer  argued)  the 
head  of  the  procession  in  check  while  the  later 
regiments  of  flowers  pressed  up  and  trod  on 
their  leaders'  heels,  all  waiting  the  signal  of  fine 
weather;  so  that  when  the  sunshine  came  all  burst 
into  bloom  together,  and  bloomed  riotously.  The 
Islands  had  never  known  such  a  March.  In  the  first 
week  the  workers  had  to  give  over  saving  the  flowers 
in  bud  and  bunching  them  in  water  jars  under 
shelter,  for  they  opened  faster  than  the  whole  popula- 
tion could  pick.  The  sky  was  clear  ;  the  weather- 
glass stood  at  '  Set  Fair.'  The  maidens  left  their 
glasshouses  and  worked  afield  with  the  lads.  In  the 
last  week  of  the  holidays  the  farmers  met  and  sent  a 
deputation  to  the  Lady,  protesting  that  if  the  schools 
re-opened  as  usual  the  flower  industry  would  perish 
amid  plenty. 

"  What  was  Government,  with  its  Education  Grant, 
compared  with  this  hundreds  of  pounds'  worth  that 
must  rot  in  the  fields  !  "  The  Lady  snapped  her 
fingers  at  the  Board  of  Education  in  London,  and 
extended  the  holidays  a  fortnight.  There  was  even 
talk  of  hiring  another  steamer  to  ply  from  the  Main. 

62 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

The  present  one  would  carry  but  fifty  tons  at  a  time, 
for  flower  boxes  take  up  much  room  for  their  weight 
Fifty  tons  thrice  a  week — say  seventy  thousand 
flowers  to  the  ton — between  nine  and  ten  millions  o£ 
flowers ! — which  means  a  million  and  half  picked  every 
day,  since  the  Islanders  do  not  work  on  Sundays. 

So  instead  of  a  month  Jan  dwelt  six  weeks  upon 
Brefar,  until  all  the  trumpet  daffodils  and  the  Leedsii 
were  either  picked  or  overblown,  and  even  the  Poet's 
Narcissus,  latest  of  all — in  those  days  little  grown 
on  the  outer  Islands,  but  chiefly  under  apple  trees 
in  the  few  orchards  on  St.  Lide's  and  in  the  Lady's 
gardens  at  Iniscaw — were  past  their  prime.  They 
were  happy  days  for  the  boy,  but  they  were  also  days 
of  almost  constant  labour,  so  that  often  after  supper 
and  prayers  he  would  climb  to  his  attic  almost  too 
weary  to  drag  off  his  clothes — far  too  weary  to  loiter 
at  his  window  picking  out  and  naming  the  sea-lights — 
before  tumbling  into  bed  and  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 

On  the  last  "  steamer  day  "  Young  Matthey  gave 
him  leave  to  travel  across  with  him  to  St.  Lide's  in 
the  barge  and  prepare  the  Treachers  for  his  return. 
As  he  stepped  ashore  on  the  quay  he  had  a  queer 
feeling  of  having  been  absent  for  years  instead  of 
for  weeks.  The  steamer  lay  alongside,  as  he  had 
seen  her  lie  some  scores  of  times  ;  the  carts  were 
rattling  down  from  the  island ;  the  laden  boats 
hurrying  across  the  Sound,  from  St.  Ann's  in  the 
south,  from  St.  Michael's  in  the  north  (where,  local 
report  said,  the  men  grew  tails  and  spoke  an  outlandish 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

language).  The  boxes  were  being  shipped  at  high 
pressure,  some  sliding  down  shoots  into  the  hold, 
others  overpiling  an  already  monstrous  deck  cargo ; 
and,  as  usual,  the  skipper  was  holding  two  altercations 
at  once  with  shippers  who  had  attempted  to  encroach 
beyond  their  allotted  space.  But  it  seemed  to  Jan 
that  either  he  had  grown  or  Garland  Town  had  shrunk. 
He  came  back  to  it  as  one  who  had  seen  the  world. 

At  the  head  of  the  street,  where  the  rough  path 
climbed  to  the  Garrison  gate,  he  ran  against  Dr. 
Hervey. 

"  Hullo,  youngster  !  Well,  it  's  fine  and  brown 
you  are  !  "  cried  the  Doctor  genially.  "  And  you  've 
sh  >t  up,  I  protest.  Is  it  Brefar  air,  or  has  the 
world  grown  for  ye  ?  " 

Jan,  with  a  new  air  of  independence,  yet  modestly 
enough,  returned  the  Doctor's  smile. 

"  It 's  different,  sir." 

"  Aye,  aye  !  Caelum,  non  animum,  mutant — worse 
rubbish  was  never  uttered.  But,  boy,  ye  've  missed 
your  Latin — precious  days  of  it.  We  must  make  up 
leeway  ;  and  from  Latin,  in  a  year's  time  or  so, 
I  '11  lead  ye  to  Greek,  which  is  a  baptism,  look  ye, — a 
baptism  into  a  cult,  and  the  only  true  key  to  freedom. 
There  be  other  ways  more  alluring,  that  look  easier, 
but  if  you  'd  be  a  free  man — free  of  these  Islands, 
free  of  the  Main,  free  of  the  Mediterranean,  which 
is  the  sea  of  seas,  and  of  Rome,  to  which  all  the 
roads  lead — ye  '11  avoid  short  cuts,  and  sit  down  with 
me  again  to  mensa,  mcnsam,  menses." 

64 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARY  MARTHA'S  TOMBSTONE 

Young  Farmer  Matthey  having  much  business  to 
transact  in  Garland  Town,  the  return  journey  was 
not  made  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Half-way 
across,  the  farmer  called  Jan  aft  to  speak  with  him. 
"  I  'd  a  sudden  thought  to-day,"  he  said,  "  and 
meeting  Sergeant  Treacher  on  the  quay  just  now 
I  broached  it  to  him.  You  seem  to  be  a  quiet, 
steady  boy,  an'  I  hear  good  reports  of  'ee,  besides 
what  I  've  seen  with  my  own  eyes.  What  d'ye  say 
to  livin'  'long  with  us  at  Chy-an-Chy,  an'  goin'  to 
Brefar  school  along  with  my  own  childern  ?  You 
needn't  be  in  a  hurry  with  '  yes  '  or  '  no,'  "  he  added, 
as  Jan  stood  with  face  flushed  and  stammered  for 
words.  "  Because,  anyway,  we  'd  have  to  get  the 
Mistress's  leave  first.  But  I  was  thinkin'  that  I  've 
a  shortage  of  boys— maids  in  plenty,  but  no  boys  to 
mention,  or  none  to  be  depended  on.  There  's  Little 
Matthey,  my  eldest.  He  's  a  grown  man,  an'  the 
farm  '11  come  to  him  in  God's  time,  but  he  've  no 
understandin'  for  flowers,  an'  never  had.  As  for 
Mark,  his  mother  spoils  'en.  Goin'  outside  my  own, 
Dave  is  a  good  lad  ;  but  Dave,  when  he  grows  up, 
'11  go  into  service  with  Trinity  House.     His  parents 

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NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

have  settled  'pon  that,  and  a  very  good  lightkeeper 
he  '11  make.  Lager's  boy  is  no  good  at  all,  nor  Aby 
Hicks,  nor  his  small  brother  Sam,  nor  Seth  Piper. 

What  I  want  is  a  lad  pretty  bright  at  learnin' 

What 's  that  in  your  hand  ?  "  he  asked,  breaking 
off. 

Jan  opened  the  parcel — a  scrap  of  old  newspaper. 
It  enwrapped  a  flat-cupped  narcissus,  with  a  belt 
of  earth  about  the  bulb. 

"  Hullo  !  That 's  what  they  call  carryin'  coals  to 
Newcastle,  eh  ?  Ha'nt  we  Ornatuses  enough  on 
Brefar,  these  days  ?  " 

"It  grows  up  at  the  Castle,  sir,  in  the  ditch 
between  the  house  and  the  outside  wall,  but  near  by 
the  door  where  the  sun  gets  to  it.  And  the  red  in 
the  cup  is  quite  different  to  any  on  Brefar.  I  was 
carrying  it  home  to — to  show  to " 

"  So  it  is,  now  you  mention  it,"  said  the  farmer, 
examining  the  flower  and  not  noting  Jan's  confusion. 
He  handed  it  back.  "  Some  freak,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  .  .  .  But  that  only  proves  what  I  was 
sayin'.  You'  ve  a  quickness  for  flowers,  a  naptitood  ; 
and  I  was  reckonin',  maybe,  if  I  brought  ye  up  an' 
gave  ye  board  an'  keep,  one  o'  these  days  you  'd 
reward  me  by  turnin'  out  a  pretty  useful  apprentice, 
an'  then  who  knows  but  ye  won't  finish  up  as  a 
hind  ? — at  sixteen  shillin'  a  week  an'  your  meals  !  " 

But  this  part  of  the  alluring  prospect  did  not  touch 
Jan,  who  had  never  possessed  any  money  and  knew 
nothing  of  its  value. 

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TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

"  Please,  sir,  what  did  Sergeant  Treacher  say  ?  " 
he  ventured. 

"  Oh,  the  Treachers  are  ready  enough  !  It 's  for 
your  good,  and,"  added  the  farmer  not  very  lucidly, 
"  'tisn'  as  if  you  was  their  own  flesh  an'  blood." 

The  barge  was  brought  ashore  at  the  little  beach 
where  Jan  had  made  his  first  landing  on  Brefar. 
The  children,  their  harvest  work  over,  were  all 
gathered  there  to  welcome  it,  and  Mary  Martha,  as 
the  custom  was  at  end  of  harvest,  had  brought  them 
down  a  picnic  tea  from  the  farm,  and  had  already 
smashed  two  cups.  The  kettle  sang  on  a  fire  under 
the  cliff's  shadow.  All  around  the  head  of  the  cove 
grew  clumps  of  narcissus  poeticus — castaway  flowers, 
unmarketable,  the  most  of  them  by  this  time  over- 
blown, but  beautiful  yet — beautiful  as  white  ghosts 
when  the  shadows  crept  down  the  beach  and 
covered  them  ;  for  some  blossomed  even  among  the 
stones  at  the  water's  edge,  and  would  bloom  again 
next  year  unless  meanwhile  an  abnormally  high 
tide  came  and  washed  the  bulbs  away.  Jan  joined 
the  tea-drinkers,  his  heart  swelling  with  his  news. 
Thanks  to  Mary  Martha's  affliction  (as  she  had 
come  to  call  it)  there  was  no  cup  for  him,  and  he 
was  told  to  go  shares  in  Annet's,  taking  sip  and  sip 
with  her — the  bliss  ! 

But  the  bliss  did  not  endure. 

"  What 's  that  you  've  brought  me?"  asked 
Annet,  nodding  towards  the  parcel,  which  he  had 
laid  beside  him. 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  How  did  you  know  I  brought  it  for  you  ?  "  he 
asked,  his  heart  beating. 

She  pouted. 

"  Is  it  for  Linnet,  then,  or  for  Bennet  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  for  you  !  " 

He  unwrapped  it,  and  held  it  out.  Her  pretty  face 
darkened. 

"  Is  it  mocking  me  ?     A  silly  old  Ornatus  !  ' 

"  But  it  's  different,"  he  began  stupidly,  afraid 
of  the  wrath  in  her  voice. 

"  As  if  you  didn'  know  that  I  am  sick  of  flowers- 
yes,  sick  of  them  !  " 

She  tossed  the  bulb  away  pettishly,  and  sat  staring 
before  her,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  heel  of  her 
boot  ground  a  pebble  or  two  in  the  sand.  Poor 
Jan  looked  at  her  ruefully.  He  had  meant  to  give  her 
pleasure,  and  a  moment  ago  his  own  happiness  had 
been  brimming.  The  news  he  had  to  tell,  news 
so  good  for  him — Would  that,  too,  make  her 
angry  ? 

But  at  this  point  Mary  Martha  let  fall  a  plate, 
and  upon  the  crash  of  it  uplifted  her  voice  in  a  wail. 

"  An'  now  it 's  plates  !  Oh,  my  misguided  hands  ! 
Plates  an'  cups  an'  candlesticks  will  ever  be  my 
cross ;  and  no  hopes  for  it,  maister,  till  we  meet  in 
the  land  o'  marrow  an'  fatness,  where  there  's  no 
candle  an'  the  crockery  tumbles  light.'' 

"  Never  mind  a  plate,  Mary  Martha,  up  or  down," 
said  the  farmer  genially. 

He  had  done  satisfactory  business  that  morning 

68 


TOM    TIDDLER'S     GROUND 

with  the  bank  at  Garland  Town,  and   could  afford 
the  loss  of  a  plate  or  two  at  harvest-ending. 

To  cheat  her  remorse  he  suggested  that  since  she 
was  talking  of  crosses  she  might  tell  them  about  the 
one  she  had  put  up  to  her  deceased  husband. 

'Tis  a  story  that  never  fails  to  cheer,"  he  assured 
the  company  tactfully. 

"  It  cost  the  all  of  twenty  pounds,"  began  Mary 
Martha,  cheering  up  at  once.  "  I  got  Hugh  and  Co.'s 
receipt  for  the  money  here  in  my  purse,  an'  ne'er 
will  I  part  with  it." 

She  opened  the  purse  and  showed  the  paper, 
greasy  with  much  folding  and  unfolding. 

'  But  don't  'ee  go  callin'  it  a  Cross,  maister, 
when  'tis  a  Collum." 

'  Dear  me,  so  'tis."  The  farmer  took  her  correc- 
tion. '  Iss,  iss,  a  collum,  an'  I  beg  your  pardon, 
woman." 

'  A  broken  collum,  an'  polished  granite,  with  the 
ivy  growin'  round  it  nat'ral  as  life.  Not  real  ivy, 
you'll  understand,  but  granite  too,  same  as  ^the 
collum.  .  .  .  When  my  poor  dear  man  went  off 
in  a  decline  an'  died — an'  a  kinder  man  the  Lord 
never  put  heart  into — I  went  to  Hugh  and  Co.  an' 
told  him  I  wanted  a  tombstone.  Hugh  and  Co.  is 
the  tombstone-maker  over  to  Garland  Town  ;  his 
real  name  is  William  Hugh,  an'  I  never  saw  any  Co. 
about  him.  I  told  Hugh  and  Co.  I  wanted  to  be 
measured  for  a  stone,  if  he  'd  understand,  because 
all  my  savin's  had  gone  in  the  funeral,  an'  I  wouldn' 

69 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

have  the  stone  until  I  'd  paid  for  it,  every  penny — 
let  alone  that  the  dear  man  never  could  abide  debt 
in  his  lifetime,  an'  'd  ne'er  have  rested  easy  wi'  that 
weight  o'  credit  'pon  his  remains.  Hugh  and  Co. 
was  very  nice  about  it,  an'  accommodatin'  ;  offered 
to  put  up  one  for  me  on  a  sort  of  hire  system,  an' 
made  a  lot  o'  useful  suggestions.  But  I  stuck  out 
that  I  'd  have  no  stone  till  he  had  his  money ;  only 
I  wanted  to  choose  the  thing  aforehand  so  's  to 
have  a  notion  o'  what  I  'd  be  savin'  for.  Seein' 
how  firm  I  was  about  the  payment,  he  took  me  into 
his  yard — such  a  place,  my  dears  !  Tombstones  by 
the  scores,  with  '  Sacred  to  the  Mem'ry '  ready 
carved  'pon  'em,  and  then  a  blank,  waitin'  till  the 
person  died,  so  that  you  got  the  creeps  wonderin' 
if  it  mightn'  be  your  turn  next.  But  /  didn't  get 
no  creeps,  not  carin'  just  then  how  soon  I  was  taken. 
Hugh  and  Co.  showed  me  all  kinds  o'  patterns. 
Bein'  used  to  his  trade,  he  was  as  easy  about  it  as  a 
butcher  with  a  calf,  an'  yet  very  kind  all  the  time. 
He  wanted  to  know  if  I  'd  have  it  in  Delabole  Slate 
or  in  a  kind  o'  what  he  called  Compo,  that  he  praised 
up  for  standin'  all  weathers.  '  We  've  a  cheap 
line  in  boards,  too,'  says  he,  '  all  seasoned  wood, 
with  two  coats  o'  best  paint  besides  primin',  an'  the 
whole  concern  to  be  repainted,  often  as  you  like,  at 
contrack  prices.'  But  I  was  looking  at  something 
quite  different  that  had  caught  my  eye,  standin'  in 
the  middle  o'  the  yard.  '  That  there  pillar  would  be 
my  fancy,'  says  I,  '  if  only  'tweren't  broken.     How 

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TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

did  you  meet  with  such  a  naccydent  ?  '  '  Broken  ? ' 
says  he.  '  That 's  done  a-purpose,  to  show  the 
life  underneath  was  a-snapped  off  afore  its  time.' 
When  I  come  to  look  closer  I  saw  he  was  tellin'  the 
truth.  '  Just  like  my  poor  dear ! '  says  I,  an'  asks 
en  the  price.  He  seemed  a  bit  absent-minded  of  a 
sudden.  '  Oh,  that  there  collum  's  a  masterpiece,' 
he  says,  '  done  by  one  of  our  best  workmen  on  the 
Main  !  'Twas  meant  for  a  deceased  party  whose 
name  I  won't  mention,  bein'  actionable,  perhaps  ; 
but  the  relatives  quarrelled  over  the  will,  an'  here  the 
blessed  thing  is,  back  'pon  my  hands.  I  can't  tell 
you  the  whole  story,  missus,'  says  Hugh  and  Co., 
'  but  here  it  be,  through  an  act  o'  carelessness  in 
the  foreman  who  took  the  order,  <m'  I  've  stuck  it 
up  here  to  show  what  we  can  do  when  we  try.' 
'  How  much  might  it  be,  sir  ?  '  I  asks,  my  heart 
in  my  mouth.  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  if  you  should 
know  anyone  who  happens  to  be  in  want  of  such  a 
thing,  you  can  tell  'em  that,  misfit  tho'  'tis,  I  can't 
let  it  go  under  twenty  pound.'  I  stood  there  of  a 
sudden  all  of  a  tremble.  '  I  '11  take  it,'  says  I,  hardly 
believing  the  sound  o'  my  own  voice.  '  What  !  ' 
says  he.  '  That  is,  if  you  're  sure  they  relatives  won't 
put  in  no  claim,  an'  if  you  '11  let  me  bring  the  money 
from  time  to  time,  just  to  show  how  I  'm  gettin' 
on,  an'  that  I  mean  honest.'  '  Well ! '  says  Hugh  and 
Co.,  surprised  out  of  hisself,  '  you  '11  excuse  me, 
missus,  but  this  beats  cock-fightin'  !  '  'It  may  or  it 
mayn't,'  says  I ;  '  but  there  's  one  other  thing  I  'd 

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NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

like  to  mention.  Could  ye  saw  off  the  broken  end 
clean  for  me  ?  '  I  says,  '  for  I  see  what  it  means,  now 
you'  ve  told  me,  but  other  people  won't,  maybe. 
They  '11  think  I  got  so  far  wi'  the  payments  an'  no 
further,  or  maybe  they  '11  think  I  picked  up  with  a 
damaged  article,  or  again  maybe  they  '11  think  I  let 
it  fall,  like  everything  else  in  the  world.  I  couldn' 
be  in  the  churchyard  all  the  time  explainin',  besides 
which  I  'm  goin'  over  to  Brefar  to  Young  Matthey 
Hender,  who  've  been  a  father  to  the  fatherless,  at 
five  pounds  a  year  and  my  keep.'  " 

"  Get  along  with  your  story,  woman,"  said  the 
farmer  hastily. 

"  Which  he  agreed,"  continued  Mary  Martha, 
"  and  I  came  over  here  an'  saved  an'  saved  till  I  had 
five  pound  put  by  !  An'  then  I  turned-to  again, 
an'  saved  and  saved  till  I  had  another  five  pound — if 
someone  will  be  good  enough  to  count.  An'  after 
that  I  saved  an'  saved  another  five.  An'  last  of  all 
I  saved  an'  saved  another  five,  an'  that  made 
TWENTY ! " 

Mary  Martha  ran  up  to  the  climax  with  a  shout  of 
triumph,  and,  ceasing  abruptly,  looked  round  the 
circle  of  her  audience  for  the  applause  which  was 
duly  given. 

"  It  's  gospel  truth,  too,  the  woman  be  tellin'," 
said  the  farmer,  rising  from  his  meal  and  preparing 
to  walk  away. 

Long  years  of  ceaseless  daily  labour — and  in  the 
beginning,  before  the  daffodils  brought  prosperity, 

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TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

they  had  been  years  of  daily  planning  and 
contriving  against  want — had  left  him  unapt  for 
relaxation.  He  had  been  restless  for  some  time 
before  the  close  of  Mary  Martha's  enthralling  story. 

"  She  hid  it  from  us,  too ;  though  the  Lord  knows 
we  'd  ha'  been  ready  to  make  a  push  an'  help  her 
t'wards  the  money." 

"  But  'twouldn't  ha'  been  the  same  thing,  maister," 
chuckled  Mary  Martha  gleefully. 

"  No,  woman,  you  're  right  there,"  he  answered, 
and  went  his  way  to  look  over  his  harvested  fields ; 
also,  if  truth  must  be  told,  to  rest  a  minute  at  the 
gate  of  each,  bless  God's  mercy,  and  entreat  it  for 
his  children,  of  whom  the  younger  were  all  too 
young  to  remember  less  prosperous  times. 


73 


CHAPTER   VII 

HOW   THE   CHILDREN   LEARNED   TO   PLAY 

"  It  must  be  a  fine  thing  to  live  on  the  Main,"  said 
Annet  thoughtfully. 

The  children  turned  their  eyes  together  over  the 
sea,  across  which  the  sunset,  behind  the  cliff  that 
shaded  them,  spread  a  soft  radiance,  warming  a  few 
high  clouds  with  its  afterglow.  The  Main  was  not 
visible  from  the  low  beach  where  they  sat,  but  they 
knew  where  it  lay  afar,  beyond  the  point  of  Iniscaw. 

"  Aye,"  said  Dave,  "  and  be  rich  enough  to  order 
a  tombstone  like  that ;  and,  when  it 's  made,  to  tell 
the  mason  you  've  changed  your  mind." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Linnet,  who  was  a  practical 
little  body,  "  I  don't  want  to  make  acquaintance 
with  any  such  whimsical  people.  You  may  be  sure 
they  'd  look  down  on  you,  bein'  so  rich  as  they 
are ;  and  I  'd  hate  to  live  where  I  was  looked 
•down  upon." 

"  I  wasn't  meaning,"  said  Annet,  "  that  I  'd  like 
to  go  over  from  here  an'  be  treated  as  they  chose. 
I  meant  it  would  be  fine  to  be  one  o'  them,  an'  so 
rich  that  you  could  look  down  on  everybody  else." 

"  But  why  should  you  ?  "  put  in  Jan,  puzzled. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  understand  !  " 

74 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

Here  Bennet,  who  was  practical  as  Linnet, 
but  in  a  different  way,  opined  that  on  the  Main  the 
Queen  rode  in  a  glass  coach,  which  even  the  Mistress 
never  did  in  the  Islands. 

"  She  couldn',  not  very  well,"  retorted  Linnet, 
ever  a  loyal  Islander.  "  But  there  's  glass  windows 
to  the  cabin  of  her  launch." 

Here  Mary  Martha,  whom  the  children  allowed  to 
listen  to  their  talk,  feeling  no  shyness  with  one  so 
simple-hearted,  laid  her  hands  in  her  lap  with 
a  sigh. 

"  I  've  longed  sometimes  to  be  Queen  of  England," 
she  confessed ;  "  though  it  don't  happen  to  me  so 
often  as  it  did  when  I  was  savin'  up  for  the  tomb- 
stone. But  that  cures  me.  Fancy  me  ridin'  in  a 
glass  coach,  with  my  unfortunate  habits  !  " 

"  Let 's  pretend  that  one  of  us  is  goin'  across  to 
the  Main  to-morrow,"  suggested  Bennet ;  "  and  we  '11 
each  choose  what  we  'd  like  for  a  present.  Dave  's 
the  eldest.  Dave,  you  're  to  start  by  the  steamer 
to-morrow,  and " 

"  But  the  steamer  went  to-day,"  Dave  objected. 

"  Well,  then,  the  day  after  to-morrow.  It  don't 
make  any  difference  to  our  pretendin'." 

"  I  didn't  want  to  disappoint  you,  that  's  all. 
Very  well,  I  'm  to  go  the  day  after  to-morrow," 
Dave  announced.  "  Now  fire  ahead,  and  choose 
what  you  want  me  to  bring  back." 

"  It 's  like  the  beginning  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast," 
said  Annet.     "  '  Once   upon   a   time   there   lived   a 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

merchant  who  had  three  daughters.  A  message 
came  to  him  that  he  had  to  travel  and  do  business 
in  a  country  a  long  way~~off.  So  he  called  his 
daughters  together,  and  asked  what  they  would  like 
him  to  bring  home  for  fairings.  The  first  daughter 
asked  for  a  necklace  of  ruby  stones  and  satin 
slippers  and  a  canary  bird  in  a  golden  cage.  The 
second  wanted  a  new  kitten  and  some  strings  for  a 
harp  and  a  dress  all  over  diamonds.  But  when  it 
came  to  the  third '  " 

"  Well,  what  did  she  want  ?  "  asked  Dave,  as 
Annet  came  to  a  halt. 

Her  face  had  flushed  of  a  sudden. 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  didn'  set  out  to  tell 
you  all  the  story." 

"  But  /  know  !  "  cried  Jan,  sitting  up  suddenly 
and  clutching  two  small  pebbles  he  had  been  tossing 
idly  in  his  hand.     "  The  third  one  wanted  a  flower." 

"  She  didn't !  "  Annet  contradicted  angrily.  "  Not 
first  along,  at  any  rate.  And  you  don't  know  any 
stories ;  you  told  me  so  yourself,  the  day  you 
came." 

Jan  passed  the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"  No,  first-along  she  didn't  want  anything  ;  but 
after  that,  because  she  didn't  like  to  disappoint,  her 
father,  she  chose  a  flower.  When  her  father  was  away 
on  the  main,  and  just  about  to  start  back  for  home,  he 
found  himself  walking  in  a  beautiful  garden,  and  it 
came  into  his  mind  that  he  'd  remembered  to  buy 
the  other  fairings,  but  forgotten  about  the  flower 

76 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

for  his  youngest  daughter.  So  he  picked  the  prettiest 
he  could  see,  when  out  from  the  bushes  jumped  a 
great  roaring  Hon. 

"  '  Who  gave  you  leave  to  pick  my  flowers  ?  ' 
roared  the  lion.  The  merchant  dropped  on  his  knees, 
and  cried  out  that  he  had  only  picked  one.  It  was 
for  his  daughter  who  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the 
sea,  and  had  made  him  promise  to  bring  her  home 
a  flower.  '  By  right  I  ought  to  kill  you/  said  the 
lion,  '  and  I  will  only  spare  you  if  you  promise  to  go 
home  and  fetch  your  daughter  to  me.  Bring  her  to 
my  palace  and  leave  her  here.  You  won't  see 
anybody.  But  if  you  don't  obey  me,  be  sure  I  will 
kill  you.'  The  merchant  had  to  promise,  and  when 
he  reached  home,  and  told  the  news,  they  were  all 
very  sad.  But  the  youngest  was  brave  and  said 
she  must  go,  so  her  father  took  her  back  with  him 
to  the  lion's  palace  and  left  her.  They  saw  nobody, 
and  when  her  father  had  gone  she  wandered  about 
alone  until  she  was  tired,  and  at  last,  coming  to  a 
bedroom,  she  lay  down  and  slept.  But  by  and  by 
she  woke  up.  It  was  dark,  and  there  was  somebody 
talking  to  her  in  the  dark,  and  although  she  couldn't 
see  his  face  she  knew  he  was  a  beautiful  Prince. 
He  went  away  before  daylight,  but  before  going  he 
told  her  that  he  would  always  love  her,  but  he  must 
always  come  in  the  dark,  and  she  must  never  try  to 
see  his  face." 

"You're  telling  it  all  wrong!"  broke  in  Annet. 
"  That 's  not  the  stcTry  at  all." 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  It  's  a  very  good  yarn,  anyway,"  said  Dave, 
as  the  child  came  to  a  stop,  all  confused ;  "  and  I  don't 
see  why  you  want  to  interrupt.     Go  on,  Janny  boy." 

"  She — she  was  never  to  see  his  face,"  pursued  Jan  ; 
but  the  words  came  halting,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
casting  about  for  the  broken  thread  of  the  story. 

"  She  wanted  too,  more  and  more,  and — oh,  yes  ! — 
it  goes  on  that  one  night  while  he  was  sleeping  she 
lit  a  lamp — it  was  a  lamp  like  the  chill  *  up  in  the 
kitchen — and  bent  over  to  look  at  him.  He  was 
handsome,  ten  times  handsomer  than  she  had  ever 
supposed.  He  was  so  handsome  that  her  hand 
shook,  and  a  drop  of  the  hot  oil  fell  on  his  shoulder. 
He  opened  his  eyes,  and  then " 

Jan  came  to  a  halt  again. 

"  Tell  us  what  happened  !  " 

Annet  was  as  eager  now  as  the  others. 

"  He — he  flew  away,  out  of  her  sight.  She  had 
broken  her  promise,  you  see.  I  don't  rightly  know 
the  end,"  Jan  confessed,  rubbing  his  eyes 
perplexedly.  Where  had  he  learnt  the  story  ?  It 
all  came  to  him  so  clearly,  up  to  a  point.  "  I  think 
she  searched  after  him — yes,  and  at  last  they  were 
married,  and  lived  happy  ever  after,"  he  wound  up, 
like  one  repeating  a  lesson. 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  a  story  that  breaks  off 

*  Chill,  a  stone  lamp  shaped  like  a  candlestick  and  having  a 
shallow  saucer  on  top.  A  little  train  (fish)  oil  was  poured  into 
the  saucer  and  a  floating  rush  served  for  wick.  Such  a  lamp 
was  used  up  to  recent  years  on  the  Islands  ;  and  the  glimmer  it 
gave  was  called  by  the  housewife  an  "idle  light,"  meaning  that 
she  and  her  maidens  could  not  see  to  sew  by  it. 

78 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

in  the  middle,"  said  Annet  cruelly.  "  Linnet,  'tis 
your  turn.  Tell  us  about  Peter  Piper  that  went  down 
to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  and  married  a  mermaid." 

Linnet  told  the  story  of  Peter  Piper,  and  when 
Linnet  had  done  another  child  told  about  the 
Piskies — how  they  stole  a  baby  out  of  its  cradle, 
and  how  the  mother  made  them  bring  it  back  by 
boiling  a  crockful  of  eggshells. 

Jan  listened,  tossing  his  two  pebbles  idly  and 
catching  them.  It  was  queer.  These  stories  also 
he  had  heard  at  sometime,  somewhere,  or  else  he  had 
dreamed  them — not  exactly  as  the  children  were 
telling  them,  but  so  nearly  that  to  all  intents  they  were 
the  same. 

Dave's  turn  came  next ;  but  Dave  for  some  minutes 
had  been  watching  Jan  and  the  way  he  tossed  the 
pebbles,  turning  his  hand  and  catching  them  neatly 
on  the  back  of  his  knuckles. 

"  That  's  a  funny  game  you  are  playin',  little  Jan. 
Who  taught  'ee  the  trick  of  it  ?  " 

"  Nobody,"  answered  Jan,  after  considering  a. 
moment.  "  It  came  into  my  head  one  day,  and 
I  've  been  playing  at  it  ever  since,  off  and  on. 
There  are  lots  of  different  ways." 

He  added  a  third  small  pebble,  tossed  up  all  three 
and  caught  them  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  where  they 
lay  disposed  as  though  they  had  been  carefully 
placed  there.  With  a  quick  upward  jerk  he  sent 
them  in  air  again,  to  fall  just  as  neatly  upon  the 
back  of  his  other  hand. 


79 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

The  children  watched  him  curiously.  One  or 
two  chose  out  pebbles,  and  tried  to  imitate  these 
tricks.  Within  five  minutes  every  child  in  the 
circle  was  engaged  in  the  game,  and  laughing  at  one 
another's  awkwardness.  In  this  way  Jan  taught 
them  the  beginnings  of  a  game  old  as  the  hills, 
played  by  shepherds  and  fisher  boys  on  far-away 
Grecian  Isles  before  ever  Homer  sang  ;  and  thus  it 
came  about  that  the  Brefar  children  play  at  knuckle- 
bones to-day  with  oddly-shaped  pebbles.  Also, 
unknowingly,  he  taught  them  to  laugh.  They  were 
laughing  yet  when  the  bell  tinkled,  up  at  the  farm, 
summoning  them  home  to  supper  and  bed ;  and  as 
they  climbed  the  hill  echoes  of  their  laughter  floated 
back  to  the  deserted  beach. 

The  echoes  died  away,  faded  into  the  perpetual 
low  hum  of  the  tide  races  sweeping  around  the 
northern  isles.  In  the  twilight  a  belated  bee 
continued  at  work  —  z-z-zoom  —  busy  among  the 
glimmering  flowers  of  the  Poet's  Narcissus.  The 
bee  pitched  on  a  flower  which  lay  broken  among 
them  where  Annet  had  tossed  it,  and  entered  its 
cup  inquisitively. 


80 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE      APPRENTICESHIP 

You  that  build  the  shade-roof,  and  you  that  court  the  rays, 
You   that  leap   besprinkling  the   rock  stream-rent  : 

He  has  been  our  fellow,  the  morning  of  our  days  ; 
Us  he  chose  for  house-mates,  and  this  way  went. 

Phoebus  with  Admetus 

So  Jan  continued  with  Young  Farmer  Matthey  and 
grew  up  as  one  of  the  household.  Our  story  has  no 
concern  with  these  years,  beyond  telling  that  he 
went  with  the  other  children  to  Brefar  school,  and 
was  passably  sharp  with  his  books  ;  and  that  he 
grew  into  a  handsome  lad,  fair-skinned,  beautifully- 
limbed,  cheerful  and  docile  of  temper.  He  never 
quarrelled,  but  would  walk  away  whenever  the 
children  started  bickering  among  themselves.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  never  quite  broke  through  his 
shyness.  He  craved  for  their  love,  but  (save 
unconsciously)  could  go  no  >vay  to  meet  it,  even 
when  he  taught  them  to  laugh  and  play  games. 
Onlv  with  Dave  he  had  no  reserve.  If  Dave  was 
David,  Jan  as  surely  was  Jonathan.  As  a  rule, 
between  growing  lads  two  years'  difference  of  age 
is  a  gulf :  but  Jan  (as  the  farmer  put  it)  was  old 
for  his  age,  and  in  one  particular  he  established  a 
mastery  which  helped  to  bring  them  level. 

They  learned  to  swim  together  ;   and  at  swimming 

81 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

from  the  start  the  younger  boy  out-paced  and 
out-distanced  the  elder.  Dave  had  no  jealousy  in 
his  nature.  He  toiled  admiringly  in  Jan's  wake, 
and  it  was  he,  not  Jan,  who  boasted  of  Jan's  beautiful 
diving.  When  they  grew  up  and  fitted  out  an  old 
boat  of  the  farmer's,  it  was  Dave's  turn  to  resume 
the  mastery.  Dave  had  a  turn  for  carpentering. 
In  steering  and  handling  a  boat,  too,  Dave  was  the 
teacher,  Jan  the  learner.  Moreover,  Dave  had  a 
sense  of  navigation  which  Jan  lacked  ;  he  seemed, 
being  born  to  the  Islands,  to  have  an  instinct  for 
their  rocks,  shoals,  and  dangers,  the  set  and  run  of 
the  tides,  what  the  wind  would  do  next,  and  how  far 
to  trust  it. 

One  other  gift  of  Jan's  must  be  mentioned,  since 
by  virtue  of  it  he  repaid  the  farmer's  kindness.  He 
developed  a  wonderful  sense  of  flowers,  so  that  none 
of  the  other  children,  between  harvest  and  harvest, 
could  compare  with  him.  For  to  harvest  the  daffodils 
is  simple  enough  :  the  grower's  real  skill  shows  itself 
in  the  between-times,  in  divining  when  to  lift  and 
transplant,  in  sorting  out  the  strong  from  the  weakly 
bulbs,  in  strengthening  the  soil,  in  choosing  new 
situations  and  aspects.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  Jan 
appeared,  merely  by  turning  a  bulb  over  in  his 
hand,  to  know  what  it  wanted.  It  was  he,  too,  who 
discovered  for  the  farmer  that  daffodil  leaves,  duly 
dried,  made  good  fodder.  The  green  leaves  are 
poisonous  for  cattle  ;  and  hitherto  the  rakings  of 
the  fields — when  the  flowers'  sap  had  run  back  into 

82 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

the  bulbs— had  been  gathered  in  heaps  and  burnt. 
The  farmer  saved  some,  however,  and  used  it  for 
litter,  never  supposing  that  the  cows  would  eat  the 
dried  stuff.  Jan  pointed  out  that  they  ate  their 
bedding  with  relish,  and  moreover  that  they  took  no 
harm.  Next  year  the  farmer  surprised  his  neighbours 
by  building  a  rick  of  daffodil  leaves  alongside  his 
hay-ricks. 

Little  by  little,  as  the  boy  grew,  the  old  longings, 
the  old  questionings,  faded  out  of  his  mind.  Work 
at  Chy-an-Chy  Farm  was  hard,  if  cheerful :  the  day 
over,  he  climbed  the  stairs  to  bed,  too  wholesomely 
tired  to  lie  awake  and  fret,  as  he  had  been  used  to 
fret,  asking  "  Who  am  I  ?  "    "  How  came  I  here  ?  " 

Maybe,  too,  the  companionship  of  the  patient 
cattle,  the  lesson  of  the  flowers — so  obedient,  so 
unexacting,  so  eager  and  happy  to  do  their  best 
when  the  appointed  time  came,  in  spite  of  wind  and 
storm — helped  to  discipline  him. 

The  lily  is  most  fair, 

But  says  not,  '  I  will  only  blow 

Upon  a  southern  land  '  ;    the  cedar  makes  no  coil 

What  rocks  shall  owe 

The  springs  that  wash  his  feet ; 

The  crocus  cannot  arbitrate  the  foil 

That  for  its  purple  radiance  is  most  meet. — 

Lord,  even  so 

I  ask  one  prayer  ; 

The  which  ii  it  be  granted, 

It  skills  not  where 

Thou  plantest  me,  only  I  would  be  planted. 

83 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

But  the  trouble  awoke  again. 

One  evening  in  early  summer, — he  was  now  in  his 
fifteenth  year, — he  and  Dave  took  a  long  swim 
together  out  to  a  naked  island  that  stands  about 
midway  in  Cromwell's  Sound.  The  pair  had  spent 
the  day  in  trimming  hedges,  working  under  a  hot 
sun  with  their  shirts  open  at  the  throat.  The  pollen 
of  flowers,  the  blown  seeds  of  early  grasses,  clung 
stickily  to  the  sweat  of  their  young  bodies,  and  they 
sought  the  water  as  a  salmon  seeks  the  freshet  to 
rid  himself  of  sea-lice. 

As  usual,  Jan  quickly  out-distanced  Dave,  and 
by  and  by,  close  under  the  rocks  of  the  island, 
ceased  swimming  and  turned  over  on  his  back, 
floating,  waiting  for  Dave  to  come  up.  As  he  lay 
so,  a  sound  came  borne  to  him  across  the  waters — a 
sound  of  a  woman's  voice  singing. 

He  had  never  heard  singing,  save  by  the  children 
in  school,  or  by  their  elders  in  chapel,  or  at  evening 
prayer,  droning  out  Wesley's  hymns  at  distressful 
length.  He  had  never  imagined  that  any  sound 
could  ravish  the.  ear  as  did  this.  He  turned  about 
and  trod  water  gently,  lifting  his  head  to  listen.  On 
the  Iniscaw  shore  a  light  shone  among  the  dark 
deodars, — for  twilight  was  falling, — and  thence  the 
voice  sang  to  him. 

With  a  few  easy  strokes  he  reached  the  island. 
He  groped  for  a  landing  in  the  shadow  of  the  rocks, 
found  handhold  and  scrambled  ashore.  Still  the 
divine  voice  floated  over  the  waters. 

84 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

He  stood,  naked,  rigid  as  a  statue,  every  nerve 
strung  taut  by  it.  Below  his  feet,  somewhere  in 
the  shadow,  Dave  called  up  to  him  that  the  swim 
had  been  long — it  was  time  to  return. 

"  But  listen  !  " 

'  It  's  the  Lady,  singing  to  herself.  She  has  her 
window  open,  and  sometimes,  they  say,  you  can  hear 
every  note  as  far  as  Brefar.     Come  back,  Jan  !  " 

Dave  headed  back  as  Jan  dived.  But  Jan  neither 
overtook  him  nor  heeded  his  shouts.  Dave,  judging 
that  he  himself  had  barely  strength  enough  left  to 
swim  back,  swam  doggedly  on.  Within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  beach  his  limbs  began  to  feel  as  heavy 
as  lead.  But  he  struggled  on  and  reached  shore, 
his  teeth  chattering,  his  body  shaking  woefully  as 
with  an  ague. 

Meanwhile  Jan  was  swimming  for  Iniscaw  and  the 
voice.  Of  the  long  return  he  recked  nothing.  No 
thought  crossed  his  mind  that  Dave  might  perhaps 
be  in  danger.  He  would  at  any  time  have  given  his 
life  for  Dave's  ;  but  just  now  he  was  oblivious  of 
all  save  the  voice,  and  he  swam  toward  the  lighted 
window  as  a  moth  is  drawn  to  a  lamp. 

Within  her  room,  high  above  the  terrace,  the  Lady 
sang  to  herself  ;  and  her  song  was  "  Caro  Nome." 
Whoso  will,  let  him  despise  ;  but  when  a  great  singer 
understands  Verdi,  it  is  a  great  and  wonderful  song. 
While  the  Lady  sang,  the  moon — almost  at  its  full — 
swam  up  above  the  deodars,  and  toward  it  Jan  swam, 
toward  the  lamp  beneath  it,  toward  the  scent  wafted 

85 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

across  the  summer  night  from  garden  flowers  and 
dark  pines. 

Loyal  Dave,  although  his  teeth  chattered,  had  no 
sooner  reached  the  shore  than  he  dragged  down  the 
boat  and — all  naked — pushed  across  in  search  of  his 
friend.  The  rowing  by  degrees  brought  back 
warmth  to  his  blood.  When  he  reached  the  farther 
side  the  Lady  had  ceased  singing  and  pulled  down 
the  blind.  He  found  Jan  stretched  naked  on  the 
sand,  shivering,  sobbing  with  exhaustion,  and  care- 
fully ferried  him  home. 

That  was  Dave  all  over — Dave,  the  good  friend, 
solid,  always  ready  at  need. 

But  the  time  came  when  Dave  must  put  on  the 
uniform  of  the  Trinity  House  and  go  off  to  the 
lightship  on  the  Stones. 

The  children  saw  him  off  tearfully,  though  he  was 
cheerful  enough.  From  the  upper  windows  of 
Chy-an-Chy  farmhouse  they  could  see  the  white 
flash  travelling  across  the  waters  from  the  lightship 
— three  white  flashes  in  twenty-four  seconds,  followed 
by  darkness  for  thirty-six  seconds — and  knew,  when 
the  flashes  came  round  again,  that  Dave  was  alive 
and  well,  and  keeping  watch. 

The  joy  of  Jan's  life,  however,  was  to  welcome 
Dave  home  when  the  relief-boat  brought  him  off ; 
for  life  on  a  lightship  is  deadly  trying  to  the  nerves 
of  most  men,  and  the  rule  is — or  then  was — to  relieve 
one  -  third    of    the   crew   every   month,    each   man 

86 


TOM     TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

spending  two  months  on  board  and  taking  a  month's 
furlough  on  shore.  Dave  had  no  nerves  ;  he  said 
that  with  so  much  cleaning  and  polishing  to  do,  out 
yonder,  there  was  no  time  to  be  melancholy  ;  and 
besides,  there  was  a  great  deal  more  to  talk  about 
than  anyone  would  think — tramp  steamers  heading 
round  land  (in  time  you  got  to  know  one  and  another 
like  old  friends,  and  to  time  their  comings  and  goings) ; 
full  sail  to  the  southward  making  for  the  Channel ;  at 
the  worst  a  school  of  porpoises,  or  a  sun-fish,  or  a 
line  of  little  murrs  flying,  or  a  gannet  to  watch  by 
the  hour,  counting  his  dives.  And  sometimes  the 
fishing-fleet  would  come  out  toward  sunset,  down 
sail,  and  hang  out  their  riding-lights,  which  gave  a 
friendly  feeling,  though  to  be  sure  they  came  from 
the  Main.  By  night,  of  course,  there  were  the  other 
sea-lights  to  watch,  particularly  the  red  light  on 
North  Island,  which  (said  Dave)  put  him  in  mind  of 
Chy-an-Chy  window  at  supper-time. 

Nevertheless,  Dave  allowed  that  it  was  good  to  be 
home  ;  especially  on  the  first  Sunday,  when  he  put  on 
his  best  shore-going  clothes  (Trinity  House  uniform) 
and  the  girls — Annet,  Linnet  and  Bennet — wore 
their  white  frocks  to  church  in  the  morning  and  to 
meeting-house  in  the  evening,  this  division  of  worship 
being  the  comfortable  rule  in  the  Islands  (and,  I  dare 
say,  no  one  a  penny  the  worse  for  it).  He  said  in  his 
matter-of-fact  way  that  even  the  smell  of  rotten  fish 
at  the  corner  of  St.  Lide's  quay  was  good  enough  to 
come  back  to,  but  the  best  smell  was  that  of  the 

*7 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

lilac-bush  by  the  lych-gate  of  Brcfar  Church,  be- 
cause it  had  been  in  full  bloom,  with  the'early  bees 
about  it,  at  his  first  home-coming. 

The  next  year  he  returned  in  the  very'Jieight  of  the 
daffodil  harvest,  and  Jan— kept  busy  from  morning 
to  night — saw  little  of  him.  Somewhere  deep  down 
in  his  heart  was  a  feeling  that  Dave,  having  nothing 
to  do  on  his  furlough,  might  have  spared  more  time 
to  stand  by  his  side  in  the  fields  and  chat.  He  under- 
stood when  Dave,  the  night  before  departure,  drew 
him  aside  and  told  him  shyly — after  much  pretence 
of  asking  advice — that  he  and  Annet  had  '  made  it 
up.'  "  Of  course,"  added  Dave,  "  that  don't  make 
any  difference  to  you  and  me." 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Jan,  believing  him. 

His  own  heart  had  not  been  seriously  engaged, 
though  from  the  first  (now  he  came  to  think  of  it) 
Annet  was  by  far  the  prettiest  girl  on  Brefar,  and 
therefore  marked  out  to  be  Dave's  sweetheart. 

"  I  'd  take  it  kindly,"  said  Dave  quite  solemnly, 
"  if  you  'd  just  bear  that  in  mind.  It  was  you,  as  a 
fact,  that  brought  us  together." 

"  Was  it  ?  "  said  Jan  doubtfully,  wondering  when 
and  how  this  could  have  happened. 

"  She  thinks  a  lot  of  you,  too,"  said  Dave. 
"  She  've  told  me  so."  He  said  it  in  a  tone  which 
conveyed  that  Jan  ought  to  be  proud,  and  proud 
Jan  accordingly  was.  "  Now  I  'm  thinking  that 
she  '11  be  feelin'  my  goin'  out  to  the  Stones,  this  time, 
more  'n  ordinary." 

88 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

"Of  course  she  will,"  Jan  agreed. 

"  An'  that,"  said  his  friend,  "  is  where  you  can 
help.  We  can't  be  married  till  the  summer  after 
next  ;    but  meantime  you  can  do  a  lot  for  us." 

"  Can  I  ?  "  asked  Jan  doubtfully.  "  Well,  I  '11 
do  my  best.  If  only  you  mean  what  you  say — 
that  it — that  this — '11  make  no  difference  be- 
tween us." 

"  Why  should  it  ?  "  (How  splendid  Dave  looked 
as  he  asked  the  question  !) 

Jan  never  said  a  word  to  Annet  concerning  her 
troth  with  Dave,  nor  she  a  word  to  him.  But  on 
the  day  after  Dave's  departure  he  took  her  for  a  sail 
to  cheer  up  her  spirits,  and  they  talked  much  of  the 
hero  by  the  way.  Somehow  it  came  to  be  understood 
that  Jan,  as  Dave's  friend,  in  a  sense  belonged  to 
Annet,  to  be  at  her  beck  and  call,  and  during  that 
summer  the  pair  sailed  on  many  an  excursion  together 
among  the  off-islands,  being  absent  at  times  for  a 
whole  afternoon — always  after  getting  leave  from 
the  farmer. 

There  could  be  no  harm  in  it.  The  farmer,  though, 
inclined  to  spoil  Annet,  knew  her  to  be  a  shrewd  girl 
and  level-headed.  (He  was  delighted,  by  the  way,, 
that  she  had  chosen  Dave  ;  for  Dave,  in  addition  to 
his  other  good  qualities,  was  an  only  son,  and  his 
parents  had  a  little  money  laid  up  in  the  savings 
bank.     A  better  son-in-law  could  not  be  wished  for.) 

As  for  Jan,  his  loyalty  to  his  friend  was  a  household 

89 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

word,  almost  a  household  jest  at  Chy-an-Chy  Farm. 
In  these  trips  he  now  and  again  came  near  to  weary- 
ing Annet  with  his  hero-worship. 

But  when  the  relief-boat  brought  Dave  home,  Jan 
would  efface  himself,  asking  no  better  reward  than 
the  old  quiet  understanding. 


90 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   SAILING 

And  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

One  day  early  in  the  next  spring  Annet  suggested 
that  instead  of  tacking  among  the  off-islands  they 
should  sail  boldly  out  for  the  Stones  and  pay  a 
surprise  visit  to  the  light-vessel. 

The  enterprise  was  not  so  very  audacious,  after 
all.  A  steady,  northerly  breeze  had  been  blowing  all 
day  and  would  certainly  hold  until  sunset ;  it  was  a 
"  soldier's  breeze,"  too,  and  would  serve  them  going 
and  coming.  Moreover,  this  would  be  their  last 
opportunity ;  for  the  daffodil  harvest  was  close  at 
hand,  and  while  it  lasted  there  could  be  no  more 
holidays. 

Jan  blamed  himself  because  the  suggestion  had 
not  come  first  from  him— that  Annet  should  have 
been  left  to  make  it. 

On  the  way  out  they  talked  gaily  for  a  while, 
anticipating  Dave's  astonishment.  Then  they  fell 
to  discussing  the  prospects  of  harvest.  All  pointed 
to  a  good  crop  and  good  prices.  The  farmer  would 
fti joy  another  prosperous  season,  and  in  the  summer 
there  would  be  a  merry  wedding. 

9i 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  It 's  good  to  think,"  said  Annet  graciously, 
"  that  you  and  Dave  will  always  be  friends." 

'  We  shall  always  be  friends,"  said  Jan,  and  added 
quickly,  "  Whatever  becomes  of  me,  I  could  never 
do  other  than  love  Dave." 

His  hand  was  on  the  tiller  and  trembled  slightly  ; 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  water  ahead.  The  boat 
had  broken  the  charmed  circle  of  the  island  tides  and 
danced  over  open  sea. 

''Whatever   becomes   of  you'?"    echoed   Annet. 
'  Why,  you  never  mean  to  leave  Brefar,  surely  !  " 

"  This  summer,  perhaps  ;  after  the  wedding. 
Dave  knows.  I  haven't  told  your  father  yet,  and  it 
won't  be  easy.  But  I  belong  to  the  Main,  you 
know — somewhere."  His  gaze  travelled  ahead, 
eagerly.  "  I  can't  explain  ;  but  when  you  belong  to 
the  Main,  you  know " 

"  Dave  ought  to  have  told  me,"  said  Annet 
pettishly.  She  was  silent  for  a  full  minute.  Then 
she  asked,  "  And  when  you  get  to  the  Main,  what 
will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  shall  fall  on  my  feet,  never  you 
fear." 

"  I  heard  father  telling  mother  the  other  day  that 
he  was  lucky  to  keep  you.  You  could  get  good 
gardener's  wages  anywhere,  and  his  wonder  was  the 
Mistress  hadn't  heard  of  you  and  snapped  you  up." 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  Mistress  wants  a  gardener 
more  than  she  has,"  said  Jan.  "  But  anyway  she  'd 
never  bear  the  sight  of  me — the  teacher  told  me  that. 

92 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

The  Commandant  was  a  friend  of  hers,  you  know  ; 
and  he  lost  his  life  saving  me." 

Annet  nodded,  but  she  was  not  heeding. 

"  I  don't  see,"  she  said,  "  that  one  needs  belong 
to  the  Main  to  want  to  live  there.  I  've  longed  for 
that,  all  my  life.  Dave,  now — he  's  happy  anywhere. 
I  've  asked  him  again  and  again  how  he  can  stand  it, 
bobbing  up  an'  down,  up  an'  down,  out  yonder  at  the 
end  of  a  chain.  Then  he  laughs  and  says  something 
foolish — that  there  's  the  holidays  to  look  forward 
to,  or  some  nonsense  of  that  sort." 

"  And  so  he  feels  it." 

"  But  'tis  no  life  for  a  man,"  insisted  Annet, 
tapping  her  foot  on  the  bottom-boards.  "  Up  an' 
down  on  the  end  of  a  chain,  and  looking  forward  to 
nothing  but  that  all  your  life  long." 

"  If  he  's  happy "  began  Jan. 

"  What  about  me  ?  "   asked  Annet,  almost  fiercely. 

She  recovered  her  graciousness  as  they  neared  the 
light-vessel,  and  answered  Dave's  ecstatic  signals 
with  a  sufficiently  affectionate  wave  of  her  hand- 
kerchiei. 

Dave  was  in  transports.  He  had  recognised  the 
boat  at  two  miles'  distance,  and  as  she  rounded  up 
alongside  you  would  have  thought  the  good  fellow 
clean  out  of  his  mind. 

"  What  a  notion,  too  !  '  he  kept  shouting.  "  What 
a  notion  !     Now,  which  of  'ee  thought  of  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  Annet,  of  course,"  answered  Jan. 

"  Ha,  ha  !     Did  she  now  ?     Did  she  really  ?  "   he 

93 


NEWS     FROM    THE     DUCHY 

fairly  bellowed,  while  Annet  blushed,  and  the  crew — 
bronzed,  friendly  fellows — grinned  down  overside. 

"  Oh,  hush — please  !  "  Annet  entreated  him  in  a 
vexed  voice.      '  Makin'  such  a  noise,  an'  before  folks. 

Tf  I  'd  known  you  'd  behave  like  this " 

But  honest  Dave  was  not  to  be  denied.  H> 
reached  down  his  arms  to  lift  her  on  board,  and  no 
sooner  had  her  on  deck  than  he  kissed  her  unblush- 
ingly,  whereat  the  crew  laughed  aloud.  They  caught 
the  painter  thrown  by  Jan,  and  as  he  jumped  aboard 
after  Annet,  let  the  boat  fall  astern,  to  be  made  fast 
there. 

The  next  hour  was  spent  in  admiring  the  ship,  the 
machinery  of  the  lantern,  the  hundred-and-one 
cunning  little  contrivances  for  economising  space  in 
galley,  pantry,  sleeping-bunks.  It  was  all  very 
wonderful  and  amazingly  cosy,  yet  Jan  kept  marvel- 
ling how  Dave,  having  once  broken  away  from  the 
Islands,  could  endure  (as  Annet  put  it)  to  live  out 
his  life  tethered  thus. 

Annet  had  recovered  her  composure,  and  at  tea — 
the  crew  insisted  on  making  tea  for  them  before  they 
started  for  home — she  reigned  as  a  queen  in  the  small 
cabin.  The  ship  smelled  potently  of  oil  and  brick- 
dust  from  end  to  end,  and  the  smell  was  disagreeable 
to  Jan. 

"  Well,  an'  what  news  o'  the  flowers  ?  "  demanded 
Dave. 

They  told  him. 

"  As  if  I  didn't  know  !  "    he  shouted  delightedly- 

94 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

"  We  can  taste  the  flowers,  even  out  here.  There  's 
the  birds  arrivin',  too,  to  tell  us  that  spring  is  comin' 
along." 

On  the  whole,  the  surprise  visit  proved  a  great 
success.  Yet  Jan  felt  that  something  was  lacking. 
He  noted  with  some  wonder  that  Dave,  the  lover, 
seemed  to  detect  nothing  amiss,  and  to  be  entirely, 
even  to  foolishness,  content  with  Annet's  behaviour 
and  bearing. 

The  time  came  to  say  good-bye,  and  he  and  Annet 
sailed  back  towards  the  sunset,  followed  for  a  long 
way  by  the  cheers  of  the  lightship's  crew.  Jan 
steered.  Annet  sat  on  the  mid-ship  thwart  gazing 
out  to  leeward  under  the  sail. 

For  a  mile  and  more  they  exchanged  not  a  word. 

At  length  Annet  said  slowly — 

"  That  kind  of  life  don't  improve  Dave,  seemin' 
to  me." 

"  Dave  don't  want  improvin',"  Jan  answered  her 
shortly. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  Annet 
watched  the  froth  rushing  by  under  the  boat's  lee. 
She  broke  it,  saying — 

"  You  must  ha'  noticed  that  I  didn't  like  it." 

"  Aye,"  Jan  replied,  "  I  took  note  o'  that." 

Another  long  pause  followed. 

"  An'  that  's  to  go  on  for  ever  an'  ever,  I  suppose. 
An'  with  any  pluck  he  might  have  gone  to  the  Main 
and  made  his  fortune." 

"  But  he  's  content  as  he  is,  lookin'  forward  to  you." 

95 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

"  An'  what  about  me  ?  "  she  cried  for  the  second 
time  that  day.  "  D'  ye  think  that  's  all  I  'm  worth  ? 
Oh,"  she  broke  off,  "  some  folk  have  no  eyes  in  their 
head  !  " 

But  Jan  had — and  so  had  Annet.  Wicked,  enticing 
eyes  hers  were,  albeit  demurely  dropped.  They 
watched  him  from  under  their  long  lashes,  and  he 
read  their  meaning.  They  were  asking  him  to  betray 
his  friend. 

A  shiver  ran  down  his  body.  She  was  fair  and 
desirable,  but  his  grip  tightened  on  the  tiller  as  he 
lied  bravely — 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Annet." 

She  said  no  more  until  they  reached  the  entrance 
of  Cromwell's  Sound  and  ran  the  boat  in  for 
shore  at  the  accustomed  cove,  but  her  face  was 
■dark. 

"  It  's  late,"  said  Jan  ;  for  indeed  twilight  had 
already  gathered.  "  They  '11  be  getting  anxious 
about  us,  up  yonder.  You  'd  best  run  along  and 
tell  them  it  's  all  right,  while  I  stow  sail  and  haul  the 
boat  up." 

Annet  lingered.  She  had  a  mind  to  tell  him  that 
she  was  afraid  of  the  gathering  dark,  but  she  knew 
very  well  that  he  would  not  believe  her.  But  the 
devil  was  in  her  now,  and  she  would  not  lose  her 
game  without  a  last  throw.  She  went  up  some  way 
along  the  path,  and  dashed  aside  among  the  darkling 
furze-bushes.  There  she  would  wait  for  him,  and 
springing  out,  seize  his  arm  as  he  came  along.     The 

96 


TOM    TIDDLER'S    GROUND 

scent  of  the  furze-blossom  was  intoxicating  as  it 
floated  close  about  her  on  the  evening  air. 

The  boat's  keelson  grated  on  the  beach  below. 
He  was  hauling  her  up,  then,  before  lowering  sail. 
Or  had  she  missed  to  hear  the  creak  of  the  sheave  ? 
If  he  was  hauling  the  boat  up,  in  another  moment  the 
keelson  would  grate  again. 

But  half  a  minute  passed.  He  was  stumbling 
about  in  the  boat.  Then  she  heard  the  soft  plash  of 
a  paddle,  and  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  it, 
stepped  out  into  the  pathway  for  a  look.  She  was 
barely  in  time.  While  she  stood  there,  doubting 
her  eyes,  the  white  sail  slid  past  the  southerly  point 
of  the  cove  and  out  of  sight. 

"  Jan  !    Jan  !  " 

Annet  tore  down  to  the  beach,  calling,  demanding 
to  know  where  he  was  bound, — what  he  meant  by  it  ? 
But  Jan  looked  back  once  only  as  he  paid  out  sheet. 
The  northerly  wind  still  held  behind  him,  and  he 
headed  the  boat  straight  down  Cromwell's  Sound 
for  the  roadstead.  A  light  glimmered  above  the 
trees  on  Iniscaw  shore  ;  but  the  Lady  might  sing  at 
the  window  now  if  she  listed.  No  spell  could  any 
longer  bind  him.  He  had  tasted  liberty  to-day  and 
looked  on  fear  ;  and  while  the  one  beckoned  him, 
the  other  shouted  him  away  from  the  Islands  to  his 
fate. 

Still  with  a  free  sheet  he  ran  across  the  roadstead, 
and  hauling  close  under  the  lee  of  St.  Lide's,  fetched 
out  past  the  land.     He  was  in  open  water  now,  with 

97 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

the  sea-lights  and  the  stars  for  guides.  The  sea  was 
smooth,  and  he  could  make  no  mistake. 

At  daybreak  he  saw  the  tall  cliffs  of  the  Main  at 
no  more  than  a  mile's  distance,  rising  sheer  from  the 
sea,  their  fissures  pencilled  with  violet  shadows  ;  and 
following  the  coast-line  southward,  he  came  to  a  bay, 
wherein  was  a  harbour  thrice  the  size  of  St.  Lide's 
Pool. 

He  steered  in  boldly.  Half  a  dozen  tall  ships  lay 
alongside  the  quay  there,  and  on  one  of  them  a  man 
was  hauling  up  a  red-white-and-green  flag.  Having 
hauled  it  chock-a-block,  he  proceeded  to  make  fast 
the  halyards  at  the  rail,  and  grinned  down  in  friendly 
fashion  as  the  boat  slid  close. 

"  Hi  !  " 

"  Hola  !  " 

"  Want  a  hand,  do  you  ?  "    asked  Jan. 

"  Siete  Italiano  ?  " 

Jan  rounded  alongside. 


98 


EPILOGUE. 

The  good  harvest  was  over.  The  family  had 
celebrated  its  close,  as  usual,  by  a  "  tea-drinking  " 
on  Brefar  beach,  and  were  wending  homeward  up 
the  hill  through  the  dusk  ;  but  on  the  beach  a  young 
man  and  a  maid  loitered,  listening  to  their  voices. 

"  Poor  old  Jan  !  "  said  Dave  thoughtfuUy.  "  I 
wonder  what  took  him  ?  Didn't  notice  anything 
queer  with  him  that  day,  did  you  ?     /  didn't." 

"  He  was  always  queer,"  answered  Annet.  "You 
never  can  depend  on  folks  from  the  Main." 

"  You  used  to  worry  me  about  going  to  live  there, 
one  time,"  Dave  reminded  her. 

"  Girls  can't  help  havin'  their  silly  notions." 

"  No,  I  suppose.  But  poor  old  Jan  !  I  wonder  if 
he  '11  write  to  us  some  day.  He  ought,  you  know, 
for  I  never  had  no  other  real  friend,"  mused  Dave 
wistfully. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  asked  Annet. 
"  Haven't   we   one   another  ?  " 

At  their  feet,  unnoted  by  them,  a  narcissus 
bloomed ;  a  flower  with  white  perianth  and  a  cup 
of  flame.  This  year  it  must  bloom  in  patience  and 
fade — this  year,  and  another,  and  another,  until 
Young  Farmer  Matthey  comes  along  with  a  sharper 
eye  than  any  of  his  children's  and  discovers  it,  the 
glory  of  the  Islands. 

99  , 


Pipes  in  Arcady 


I  hardly  can  bring  myself  to  part  with  this  story, 
it  has  been  such  a  private  joy  to  me.  Moreover, 
that  I  have  lain  awake  in  the  night  to  laugh  over  it  is 
no  guarantee  of  your  being  passably  amused.  Your- 
selves, I  dare  say,  have  known  what  it  is  to  awake 
in  irrepressible  mirth  from  a  dream  which  next 
morning  proved  to  be  flat  and  unconvincing.  Well, 
this  my  pet  story  has  some  of  the  qualities  of  a 
dream  ;  being  absurd,  for  instance,  and  almost 
incredible,  and  even  a  trifle  inhuman.     After  all,  I 

had  better  change  my  mind,  and  tell  you  another 

But  no  ;    I  will  risk  it,  and  you  shall  have  it,  just 

as  it  befel. 

*  *  *  * 

I  had  taken  an  afternoon's  holiday  to  make  a 
pilgrimage  :  my  goal  being  a  small  parish  church 
that  lies  remote  from  the  railway,  five  good  miles 
from  the  tiniest  of  country  stations  ;  my  purpose 
to  inspect — or  say,  rather,  to  contemplate — a 
Norman  porch,  for  which  it  ought  to  be  widely 
famous.     (Here  let  me  say  that  I  have  an  unlearned 

IOI 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

passion  for  Norman  architecture — to  enjoy  it  merely, 
not  to  write  about  it.) 

To  carry  me  on  my  first  stage  I  had  taken  a 
crawling  local  train  that  dodged  its  way  somehow 
between  the  regular  expresses  and  the  "  excursions  " 
that  invade  our  Delectable  Duchy  from  June  to 
October.  The  season  was  high  midsummer,  the 
afternoon  hot  and  drowsy  with  scents  of  mown  hay ; 
and  between  the  rattle  of  the  fast  trains  it  seemed 
that  we,  native  denizens  of  the  Duchy,  careless  of 
observation  or  applause,  were  executing  a  tour  de 
force  in  that  fine  indolence  which  has  been  charged 
as  a  fault  against  us.  That  we  halted  at  every 
station  goes  without  saying.  Few  sidings — however 
inconsiderable  or,  as  it  might  seem,  fortuitous — 
escaped  the  flattery  of  our  prolonged  sojourn.  We 
ambled,  we  paused,  almost  we  dallied  with  the 
butterflies  afloat  over  the  meadow-sweet  and  cow- 
parsley  beside  the  line  ;  we  exchanged  gossip  with 
stationmasters,  and  received  the  congratulations  of 
signalmen  on  the  extraordinary  spell  of  fine  weather. 
It  did  not  matter.  Three  market-women,  a  pedlar, 
and  a  local  policeman  made  up  with  me  the  train's 
complement  of  passengers.  I  gathered  that  their 
business  could  wait  ;  and  as  for  mine — well,  a 
Norman  porch  is  by  this  time  accustomed  to 
waiting. 

I  will  not  deny  that  in  the  end  I  dozed  at  intervals 
in  my  empty  smoking  compartment  ;  but  wish  to 
make  it  clear  that  I  came  on  the  vision  (as  I  will 

102 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

call  it)  with  eyes  open,  and  that  it  left  me  staring, 
wide-awake  as  Macbeth. 

Let  me  describe  it.  To  the  left  of  the  line  as  you 
travel  westward  there  lies  a  long  grassy  meadow  on 
a  gentle  acclivity,  set  with  three  or  four  umbrageous 
oaks  and  backed  by  a  steep  plantation  of  oak 
saplings.  At  the  foot  of  the  meadow,  close  along- 
side the  line,  runs  a  brook,  which  is  met  at  the 
meadow's  end  by  a  second  brook  which  crosses 
under  the  permanent  way  through  a  culvert.  The 
united  waters  continue  the  course  of  the  first  brook, 
beside  the  line,  and  maybe  for  half  a  mile  farther  ; 
but,  a  few  yards  below  their  junction,  are  dammed 
by  the  masonry  of  a  bridge  over  which  a  country 
lane  crosses  the  railway ;  and  this  obstacle  spreads 
them  into  a  pool  some  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  wide, 
overgrown  with  the  leaves  of  the  arrow-head,  and 
fringed  with  water-flags  and  the  flowering  rush. 

Now  I  seldom  pass  this  spot  without  sparing  a 
glance  for  it  ;  first  because  of  the  pool's  still  beauty, 
and  secondly  because  many  rabbits  infest  the 
meadow  below  the  coppice,  and  among  them  for 
two  or  three  years  was  a  black  fellow  whom  I  took 
an  idle  delight  in  recognising.  (He  is  gone  now,  and 
his  place  knows  him  no  more  ;  yet  I  continue  to 
hope  for  sight  of  a  black  rabbit  just  there.)  But 
this  afternoon  I  looked  out  with  special  interest 
because,  happening  to  pass  down  the  line  two  days 
before,  I  had  noted  a  gang  of  navvies  at  work  on 
the  culvert ;    and  among  them,  as  they  stood  aside 


103 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

to  let  the  train  pass,  I  had  recognised  my  friend 
Joby  Tucker,  theirt  ganger,  and  an  excellent  fellow 
to  boot. 

Therefore  my  eyes  were  alert  as  we  approached 
the  curve  that  opens  the  meadow  into  view,  and — 
as  I  am  a  Christian  man,  living  in  the  twentieth 
century — I  saw  this  vision  :  I  beheld  beneath  the 
shade  of  the  midmost  oak  eight  men  sitting  stark 
naked,  whereof  one  blew  on  a  flute,  one  played  a 
concertina,  and  the  rest  beat  their  palms  together, 
marking  the  time  ;  while  before  them,  in  couples 
on  the  sward,  my  gang  of  navvies  rotated  in 
a  clumsy  waltz  watched  by  a  ring  of  solemn 
ruminant  kine ! 

I  saw  it.  The  whole  scene,  barring  the  concertina 
and  the  navvies'  clothes,  might  have  been  trans- 
formed straight  from  a  Greek  vase  of  the  best  period. 
Here,  in  this  green  corner  of  rural  England,  on  a 
workaday  afternoon  (a  Wednesday,  to  be  precise), 
in  full  sunlight,  I  saw  this  company  of  the  early  gods 
sitting,  naked  and  unabashed,  and  piping,  while 
twelve  British  navvies  danced  to  their  music.  .  .  . 
I  saw  it ;  and  a  derisive  whistle  from  the  engine  told 
me  that  driver  and  stoker  saw  it  too.  I  was  not 
dreaming  then.  But  what  on  earth  could  it  mean  ? 
For  fifteen  seconds  or  so  I  stared  at  the  vision  .  .  . 
and  so  the  train  joggled  past  it  and  rapt  it  from 
my  eyes. 

I  can  understand  now  the  ancient  stories  of  men 
who,  having  by  hap  surprised  the  goddesses  bathing, 

104 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

never  recovered  from  the  shock  but  thereafter  ran 
wild  in  the  woods  with  their  memories. 

At  the  next  station  I  alighted.  It  chanced  to  be 
the  station  for  wThich  I  had  taken  my  ticket  ;  but 
anyhow  I  should  have  alighted  there.  The  spell 
of  the  vision  was  upon  me.  The  Norman  porch 
might  wait.  It  is  (as  I  have  said)  used  to  waiting, 
and  in  fact  it  has  waited.  I  have  not  yet  made 
another  holiday  to  visit  it.  Whether  or  no  the 
market-women  and  the  local  policeman  had  beheld, 
I  know  not.  I  hope  not,  but  now  shall  never  know. 
The  engine-driver,  leaning  in  converse 
with  the  stationmaster,  and  jerking  a  thumb  back- 
ward, had  certainly  beheld.  But  I  passed  him  with 
averted  eyes,  gave  up  my  ticket,  and  struck  straight 
across  country  for  the  spot. 

I  came  to  it,  as  my  watch  told  me,  at  twenty 
minutes  after  five.  The  afternoon  sunlight  still  lay 
broad  on  the  meadow.  The  place  was  unchanged 
save  for  a  lengthening  of  its  oak-tree  shadows.  But 
the  persons  of  my  vision — naked  gods  and  navvies — 
had  vanished.  Only  the  cattle  stood,  knee-deep  in 
the  pool,  lazily  swishing  their  tails  in  protest  against 
the  flies  ;  and  the  cattle  could  tell  me  nothing. 
*  *  *  * 

Just  a  fortnight  later,  as  I  spent  at  St.  Blazey 
junction  the  forty  odd  minutes  of  repentance  ever 
thoughtfully  provided  by  our  railway  company  for 
those  who,  living  in  Troy,  are  foolish  enough  to> 
travel,  I  spied  at  some  distance  below  the  station  a 

105 


NEWS     FROM     THE    DUCHY 

gang  of  men  engaged  in  unloading  rubble  to  construct 
a  new  siding  for  the  clay-traffic,  and  at  their  head  my 
friend  Mr.  Joby  Tucker.  The  railway  company  was 
■consuming  so  much  of  my  time  that  I  felt  no  qualms 
in  returning  some  part  of  the  compliment,  and 
strolled  down  the  line  to  wish  Mr.  Tucker  good-day. 
"  And,  by  the  bye,"  I  added,  "  you  owe  me  an 
explanation.  What  on  earth  were  you  doing  in  Treba 
meadow  two  Wednesdays  ago — you  and  your  naked 
friends  ?  " 

Joby  leaned  on  his  measuring  rod  and  grinned 
from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  see'd  us  ?  "  he  asked,  and,  letting  his  eyes 
iravel  along  the  line,  he  chuckled  to  himself  softly 
and  at  length.  "  Well,  now,  I  'm  glad  o'  that.  'Fact 
is,  I  've  been  savin'  up  to  tell  'ee  about  it,  but  (thinks 
I)  when  I  tells  Mr.  Q.  he  won't  never  believe." 

"  I  certainly  saw  you,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  as  for 
believing " 

"  Iss,  iss,"  he  interrupted,  with  fresh  chucklings  ; 
""  a  fair  knock-out,  wasn'  it  ?  .  .  .  You  see,  they 
was  blind — poor  fellas  !  " 

"  Drunk  ?  " 

"  No,  sir — blind — '  pity  the  pore  blind  '  ;  three- 
parts  blind,  anyways,  an'  undergoin'  treatment  for 
it." 

"  Nice  sort  of  treatment  !  " 

"  Eh  ?  You  don't  understand.  See'd  us  from 
the   train,   did   'ee  ?     Which   train  ?  " 

"  The  1.35  ex  Millbay." 

106 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

"  Wish  I  'd  a-knowed  you  was  watchin'  us.  I  'd 
ha'  waved  my  hat  as  you  went  by,  or  maybe  blawed 
'ee  a  kiss — that  bein'  properer  to  the  occasion,  come 
to  think." 

Joby  paused,  drew  the  back  of  a  hand  across  his 
laughter-moistened  eyes,  and  pulled  himself  together, 
steadying  his  voice  for  the  story. 

*  *  *  * 

"  I  '11  tell  'ee  what  happened,  from  the  beginnin'. 
A  gang  of  us  had  been  sent  down,  two  days  before, 
to  Treba  meadow,  to  repair  the  culvert  there.  Soon 
as  we  started  to  work  we  found  the  whole  masonry 
fairly  rotten,  and  spent  the  first  afternoon  (that  was 
Monday)  underpinnin',  while  I  traced  out  the  extent 
o'  the  damage.  The  farther  I  went,  the  worse  I 
found  it  ;  the  main  mischief  bein'  a  leak  about 
midway  in  the  culvert,  on  the  down  side  ;  whereby 
the  water,  perc'latin  through,  was  unpackin'  the  soil, 
not  only  behind  the  masonry  of  the  culvert,  but 
right  away  down  for  twenty  yards  and  more  behind 
the  stone-facing  where  the  line  runs  alongside  the 
pool.  All  this  we  were  forced  to  take  down,  shorein' 
as  we  went,  till  we  cut  back  pretty  close  to  the  rails. 
The  job,  you  see,  had  turned  out  more  serious  than 
reported  ;  and  havin'  no  one  to  consult,  I  kept  the 
men  at  it. 

"  By  Wednesday  noon  we  had  cut  back  so  far  as 
we  needed,  shorein'  very  careful  as  we  went,  and  the 
men  workin'  away  cheerful,  with  the  footboards  of 
the  expresses  whizzin'  by  close  over  their  heads,  so  's 

107 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

it  felt  like  havin'  your  hair  brushed  by  machinery. 
By  the  time  we  knocked  off  for  dinner  I  felt  pretty 
easy  in  mind,  knowin'  we  'd  broke  the  back  o'  the  job. 

"  Well,  we  touched  pipe  and  started  again.  Bern' 
so  close  to  the  line  I'd  posted  a  fella  with  a  flag — 
Bill  Martin  it  was — to  keep  a  look-out  for  the  down- 
trains  ;  an'  about  three  o'clock  or  a  little  after  he 
whistled  one  comin'.  I  happened  to  be  in  the  culvert 
at  the  time,  but  stepped  out  an'  back  across  the 
brook,  just  to  fling  an  eye  along  the  embankment 
to  see  that  all  was  clear.  Clear  it  was,  an'  therefore 
it  surprised  me  a  bit,  as  the  train  hove  in  sight  around 
the  curve,  to  see  that  she  had  her  brakes  on,  hard, 
and  was  slowin'  down  to  stop.  My  first  thought 
was  that  Bjll  Martin  must  have  taken  some  scare  an' 
showed  her  the  red  flag.  But  that  was  a  mistake  ; 
besides  she  must  have  started  the  brakes  before 
openin'  sight  on  Bill." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  was  she  pulling  up  ?  "  I 
asked.     "  It  couldn't  be  signals." 

"  There  ain't  no  signal  within  a  mile  of  Treba 
meadow,  up  or  down.  She  was  stoppin'  because — 
but  just  you  let  me  tell  it  in  my  own  way.  Along 
she  came,  draggin'  hard  on  her  brakes  an'  whistlin'. 
I  knew  her  for  an  excursion,  and  as  she  passed  I 
sized  it  up  for  a  big  school-treat.  There  was  five 
coaches,  mostly  packed  with  children,  an'  on  one  o' 
the  coaches  was  a  board — '  Exeter  to  Penzance.'  The 
four  front  coaches  had  corridors,  the  tail  one  just 
ord'nary  compartments. 

108 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

"  Well,  she  dragged  past  us  to  dead-slow,  an'  came 
to  a  standstill  with  her  tail  coach  about  thirty  yards 
beyond  where  I  stood,  and,  as  you  might  say,  with 
its  footboard  right  over-hangin'  the  pool.  You 
mayn't  remember  it,  but  the  line  just  there  curves 
pretty  sharp  to  the  right,  and  when  she  pulled  up, 
the  tail  coach  pretty  well  hid  the  rest  o'  the  train 
from  us.  Five  or  six  men,  hearin'  the  brakes,  had 
followed  me  out  of  the  culvert  and  stood  by  me, 
wonderin'  why  the  stoppage  was.  The  rest  were 
dotted  about  along  the  slope  of  th'  embankment. 
And  then  the  curiousest  thing  happened — about  the 
curiousest  thing  I  seen  in  all  my  years  on  the 
line.  A  door  of  the  tail  coach  opened  and  a  man 
stepped  out.  He  didn'  jump  out,  you  understand, 
nor  fling  hisself  out  ;  he  just  stepped  out  into 
air,  and  with  that  his  arms  and  legs  cast  themselves 
anyways  an'  he  went  down  sprawlin'  into  the  pool. 
It 's  easy  to  say  we  ought  t'  have  run  then  an'  there 
an'  rescued  'im  ;  but  for  the  moment  it  stuck  us  up 
starin'  an' — Wait  a  bit.     You  han't  heard  the  end. 

"  I  hadn't  fairly  caught  my  breath,  before  another 
man  stepped  out  !  He  put  his  foot  down  upon 
nothing,  same  as  the  first,  overbalanced  just  the  same, 
and  shot  after  him  base-over-top  into  the  water. 

"  Close  'pon  the  second  man's  heels  appeared  a 
third.  .  .  .  Yes,  sir,  I  know  now  what  a  woman  feels 
like  when  she 's  goin'  to  have  the  scritches.*  I  'd  have 
asked  someone  to  pinch  me  in  the  fleshy  part  o'  the 

*  Hysterics. 
109 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

leg,  to  make  sure  I  was  alive  an'  awake,  but  the  power 
o'  speech  was  taken  from  us.  We  just  stuck  an' 
stared. 

"  What  beat  everything  was  the  behaviour  of  the 
train,  so  to  say.  There  it  stood,  like  as  if  it  'd  pulled 
up  alongside  the  pool  for  the  very  purpose  to  unload 
these  unfortnit'  men ;  an'  yet  takin'  no  notice 
whatever.  Not  a  sign  o'  the  guard — not  a  head 
poked  out  anywheres  in  the  line  o'  windows — only 
the  sun  shinin',  an'  the  steam  escapin',  an'  out  o' 
the  rear  compartment  this  procession  droppin'  out 
an'  high-divin'  one  after  another. 

"  Eight  of  'em  !  Eight,  as  I  am  a  truth-speakin' 
man — but  there  !  you  saw  'em  with  your  own  eyes. 
Eight,  and  the  last  of  the  eight  scarce  in  the  water 
afore  the  engine  toots  her  whistle  an'  the  train  starts 
on  again,  round  the  curve  an'  out  o'  sight. 

"  She  didn'  leave  us  no  time  to  doubt,  neither, 
for  there  the  poor  fellas  were,  splashin'  an'  blowin', 
some  of  'em  bleatin'  for  help,  an'  gurglin',  an'  for 
aught  we  know  drownin'  in  three-to-four  feet  o' 
water.  So  we  pulled  ourselves  together  an'  ran  to 
give  'em  first  aid. 

"  It  didn'  take  us  long  to  haul  the  whole  lot  out 
and  ashore  ;  and,  as  Providence  would  have  it,  not 
a  bone  broken  in  the  party.  One  or  two  were  sufferin' 
from  sprains,  and  all  of  'em  from  shock  (but  so  were 
we,  for  that  matter),  and  between  'em  they  must  ha' 
swallowed  a  bra'  few  pints  o'  water,  an'  muddy  water 
at    that.      I   can't   tell   ezackly   when   or   how  we 

no 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

discovered  they  was  all  blind,  or  near-upon  blind.  It 
may  ha'  been  from  the  unhandiness  of  their  move- 
ments an'  the  way  they  clutched  at  us  an'  at  one 
another  as  we  pulled  'em  ashore.  Hows'ever,  blind 
they  were  ;  an'  I  don't  remember  that  it  struck  us  as 
anyways  singular,  after  what  we  'd  been  through 
a'ready.  We  fished  out  a  concertina,  too,  an'  a 
silver-mounted  flute  that  was  bobbin'  among  the 
weeds. 

"  The  man  the  concertina  belonged  to — a  tall  fresh 
complexioned  young  fella  he  was,  an'  very  mild  of 
manner — turned  out  to  be  a  sort  o'  leader  o'  the 
party ;  an'  he  was  the  first  to  talk  any  sense. 
Th-thank  you,'  he  said.  '  They  told  us  Penzance 
was  the  next  stop.' 

"  '  Hey  ?  '  says  I. 

"  '  They  told  us,'  he  says  again,  plaintive-like, 
feelin'  for  his  spectacles  an'  not  finding  'em,  '  that 
Penzance  was  the  next  stop.' 

"  '  Bound  for  Penzance,  was  you  ?  '  I  asks. 

" '  For  the  Land's  End,  'says  he,  his  teeth  chatterin'. 
I  set  it  down  the  man  had  a  stammer,  but  'twas  only 
the  shock  an'  the  chill  of  his  duckin'. 

"  '  Well,'  says  I, '  this  ain't  the  Land's  End,  though 
I  dessay  it  feels  like  it.  Then  you  wasn'  thrown 
out  ?  '  I  says. 

"  '  Th-thrown  out  ?  '  says  he.  '  N-no.  They  told 
us  Penzance  was  the  next  stop.' 

"  '  Then,'  says  I,  '  if  you  got  out  accidental  you  've 
had  a  most  providential  escape,  an'  me  an'  my  mates 

in 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

don't  deserve  less  than  to  hear  about  it.  There  's 
bound  to  be  inquiries  after  you  when  the  guard  finds 
your  compartment  empty  an'  the  door  open.  May 
be  the  train  '11  put  back  ;  more  likely  they  '11  send  a 
search  party  ;  but  anyways  you  're  all  wet  through, 
an'  the  best  thing  for  health  is  to  off  wi'  your  clothes 
an'  dry  'em  this  warm  afternoon.' 

"  '  I  dessay,'  says  he,  '  you  '11  have  noticed  that 
our  eyesight  is  affected.' 

"  '  All  the  better  if  you  're  anyways  modest,'  says 
I.  '  You  couldn'  find  a  retirededer  place  than  this — 
not  if  you  searched  :    an'  we  don't  mind.' 

"  Well,  sir,  the  end  was  we  stripped  'em  naked 
as  Adam,  an'  spread  their  clothes  to  dry  'pon  the 
grass.  While  we  tended  on  'em  the  mild  young 
man  told  us  how  it  had  happened.  It  seems  they  'd 
come  by  excursion  from  Exeter.  There 's  a  blind 
home  at  Exeter,  an'  likewise  a  cathedral  choir, 
an'  Sunday  school,  an'  a  boys'  brigade,  with 
other  sundries ;  an'  this  year  the  good  people 
financin'  half-a-dozen  o'  these  shows  had  discovered 
that  by  clubbin'  two  sixpences  together  a  shillin' 
could  be  made  to  go  as  far  as  eighteenpence  ;  and 
how,  doin'  it  on  the  co-op'  instead  of  an  afternoon 
treat  for  each,  they  could  manage  a  two  days'  outin' 
for  all — Exeter  to  Penzance  an'  the  Land's  End, 
sleepin'  one  night  at  Penzance,  an'  back  to  Exeter  at 
some  ungodly  hour  the  next.  It 's  no  use  your  askin' 
me  why  a  man  three-parts  blind  should  want  to  visit 
the  Land's  End.     There  's  an  attraction  about  that 


112 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

place,  an'  that 's  all  you  can  say.  Everybody  knows 
as  tisn'  worth  seein',  an'  yet  everybody  wants  to  see 
it — so  why  not  a  blind  man  ? 

"  Well,  this  Happy  Holiday  Committee  (as  they 
called  themselves)  got  the  Company  to  fix  them  up 
with  a  special  excursion  ;  an'  our  blind  friends — 
bein'  sensitive,  or  maybe  a  touch  above  mixin'  wi' 
the  school  children  an'  infants — had  packed  them- 
selves into  this  rear  compartment  separate  from  the 
others.  One  of  'em  had  brought  his  concertina,  an' 
another  his  flute,  and  what  with  these  an'  other  ways 
of  passin'  the  time  they  got  along  pretty  comfortable 
till  they  came  to  Gwinear  Road  :  an'  there  for  some 
reason  they  were  held  up  an'  had  to  show  their  tickets. 
Anyways,  the  staff  at  Gwinear  Road  went  along  the 
train  collectin'  the  halves  o'  their  return  tickets. 
'  What 's  the  name  o'  this  station  ?  "  asks  my  blind 
friend,  very  mild  an'  polite.  '  Gwinear  Road,'  answers 
the  porter ;  '  Penzance  next  stop.'  Somehow  this  gave 
him  the  notion  that  they  were  nearly  arrived,  an'  so, 
you  see,  when  the  train  slowed  down  a  few  minutes 
later  an'  came  to  a  stop,  he  took  the  porter  at  his 
word,  an'  stepped  out.  Simple,  wasn't  it  ?  But  in 
my  experience  the  curiousest  things  in  life  are  the 
simplest  of  all,  once  you  come  to  inquire  into  'em." 

"  What  I  don't  understand,"  said  I,  "  is  how  the 
train  came  to  stop  just  there." 

Mr.  Tucker  gazed  at  me  rather  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger.  "  I  thought,"  said  he,  "  'twas  agreed  I 
should  tell  the  story  in  my  own  way.     Well,  as  I 

113 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

was  sayin',  we  got  those  poor  fellas  there,  all  as  naked 
as  Adam,  an'  we  was  helpin'  them  all  we  could — 
some  of  us  wringin'  out  their  under  linen  an'  spreading 
it  to  dry,  others  collectin'  their  hats,  an'  tryin'  which 
fitted  which,  an'  others  even  dredgin'  the  pool  for 
their  handbags  an'  spectacles  an'  other  small  articles, 
an'  in  the  middle  of  it  someone  started  to  laugh. 
You  '11  scarce  believe  it,  but  up  to  that  moment  there 
hadn't  been  so  much  as  a  smile  to  hand  round  ;  an' 
to  this  day  I  don't  know  the  man's  name  that  started 
it — for  all  I  can  tell  you,  I  did  it  myself.  But  this 
I  do  know  that  it  set  the  whole  gang  like  a  motor- 
engine.     There  was  a  sort  of  '  click,'  an'  the  next 

moment 

"  Laugh  ?  I  never  heard  men  laugh  like  it  in 
my  born  days.  Sort  of  recoil,  I  s'pose  it  must  ha' 
been,  after  the  shock.  Laugh  ?  There  was  men 
staggerin'  drunk  with  it  and  there  was  men  rollin' 
on  the  turf  with  it  ;  an'  there  was  men  cryin' 
with  it,  holdin'  on  to  a  stitch  in  their  sides  an' 
beseechin'  everyone  also  to  hold  hard.  The  blind 
men  took  a  bit  longer  to  get  going  ;  but  by  gosh, 
sir  !  once  started  they  laughed  to  do  your  heart 
good.  O  Lord,  O  Lord !  I  wish  you  could  ha' 
seen  that  mild-mannered  spokesman.  Somebody 
had  fished  out  his  spectacles  for  en,  and  that  was 
all  the  clothing  he  stood  in — that,  an'  a  grin.  He 
fairly  beamed ;  an'  the  more  he  beamed  the 
more  we  rocked,  callin'  on  en  to  take  pity  an' 
stop  it. 

114 


PIPES    IN    ARCADY 

"  Soon  as  I  could  catch  a  bit  o'  breath,  '  Land's 
End  next  stop  !  '  gasped  I.  '  O,  but  this  is  the 
Land's  End  !  This  is  what  the  Land's  End  oughter 
been  all  the  time,  an'  never  was  yet.  O,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,'  says  I,  '  stop  beamin',  and  pick  up 
your  concertina  an'  pitch  us  a  tune  !  ' 

"  Well,  he  did  too.  He  played  us  '  Home,  sweet 
home  '  first  of  all — 'mid  pleasure  an'  palaces — an' 
the  rest  o'  the  young  men  sat  around  en  an'  started 
clappin'  their  hands  to  the  tune  ;  an'  then  some 
fool  slipped  an  arm  round  my  waist.  I  'm  only 
thankful  he  didn't  kiss  me.  Didn't  think  of  it, 
perhaps  ;  couldn't  ha'  been  that  he  wasn't  capable. 
It  must  ha'  been  just  then  your  train  came  along. 
An'  about  twenty  minutes  later,  when  we  was 
gettin'  our  friends  back  into  their  outfits,  we  heard 
the  search-engine  about  half  a  mile  below,  whistlin' 
an'  feelin'  its  way  up  very  cautious  towards  us. 

"  They  was  sun-dried  an'  jolly  as  sandhoppers — 
all  their  eight  of  'em — as  we  helped  'em  on  board 
an'  wished  'em  ta-ta  !  The  search  party  couldn' 
understand  at  all  what  had  happened — in  so  short 
a  time,  too — to  make  us  so  cordial ;  an'  somehow 
we  didn'  explain — neither  we  nor  the  blind  men.  I 
reckon  the  whole  business  had  been  so  loonatic  we 
felt  it  kind  of  holy.  But  the  pore  fellas  kept  wavin' 
back  to  us  as  they  went  out  o'  sight  around  the 
curve,  an'  maybe  for  a  mile  beyond.  I  never  heard," 
Mr.  Tucker  wound  up  meditatively,  "  if  they  ever 
reached  the  Land's  End.     I  wonder  ?  " 


"5 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  But,  excuse  me  once  more,"  said  I.  "  How- 
came  the  train  to  stop  as  it  did  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure.  I  said  just  now  that  the  curiousest 
things  in  life  were,  gen'rally  speakin',  the  simplest. 
One  o'  the  schoolchildren  in  the  fore  part  of  the 
train — a  small  nipper  of  nine — had  put  his  head  out 
o'  the  carriage  window  and  got  his  cap  blown  away. 
That 's  all.  Bein'  a  nipper  of  some  resource,  he 
wasted  no  time,  but  touched  off  the  communicatin' 
button  an'  fetched  the  whole  train  to  a  standstill. 
George  Simmons,  the  guard,  told  me  all  about  it 
last  week,  when  I  happened  across  him  an'  asked 
the  same  question  you  've  been  askin'.  George  was 
huntin'  through  the  corridors  to  find  out  what  had 
gone  wrong  ;  that  's  how  the  blind  men  stepped  out 
without  his  noticin'.  He  pretended  to  be  pretty 
angry  wi'  the  young  tacker.  '  Do  'ee  know,'  says 
George,  '  it 's  a  five  pound  fine  if  you  stop  a  train 
without  good  reason  ?  '  '  But  I  had  a  good  reason,' 
says  the  child.  '  My  mother  gave  'levenpence  for 
that  cap,  an'  it 's  a  bran'  new  one.'  " 


116 


Our   Lady  of  Gwithian 


Mary,  mother,  well  thou  be  ! 
Mary,  mother,  think  on  me  ; 
Sweete  Lady,  maiden  clean, 
Shield  me  from  ill,  shame,  and  teen  ; 
Shield  me,  Lady,  from  villainy 
And  from  all  wicked  company  !  " 

Speculum  Christiani. 


Here  is  a  little  story  I  found  one  day  among  the 
legends  of  the  Cornish  Saints,  like  a  chip  in  porridge. 
If  you  love  simplicity,  I  think  it  may  amuse  you. 

Lovey  Bussow  was  wife  of  Daniel  Bussow,  a  tin- 
streamer  of  Gwithian  Parish.  He  had  brought  her 
from  Camborne,  and  her  neighbours  agreed  that  there 
was  little  amiss  with  the  woman  if  you  overlooked 
her  being  a  bit  weak  in  the  head.  They  set  her  down 
as  "  not  exactly."  At  the  end  of  a  year  she  brought 
her  husband  a  fine  boy.  It  happened  that  the  child 
was  born  just  about  the  time  of  year  the  tin- 
merchants  visited  St.  Michael's  Mount  ;  and  the 
father — who  streamed  in  a  small  way,  and  had  no 
beast  of  burden  but  his  donkey,  or  "  naggur  " — had 
to  load  up  panniers  and  drive  his  tin  down  to  the 

117 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

shore-market  with  the  rest,  which  for  him  meant  an 
absence  of  three  weeks,  or  a  fortnight  at  the  least. 

So  Daniel  kissed  his  wife  and  took  his  leave  ;  and 
the  neighbours,  who  came  to  visit  her  as  soon  as  he 
was  out  of  the  way,  all  told  her  the  same  story — that 
until  the  child  was  safely  baptised  it  behoved  her  to 
be  very  careful  and  keep  her  door  shut  for  fear  of  the 
Piskies.  The  Piskies,  or  fairy-folk  (they  said),  were 
themselves  the  spirits  of  children  that  had  died  un- 
christened,  and  liked  nothing  better  than  the  chance 
to  steal  away  an  unchristened  child  to  join  their 
nation  of  mischief. 

Lovey  listened  to  them,  and  it  preyed  on  her 
mind.  She  reckoned  that  her  best  course  was  to 
fetch  a  holy  man  as  quickly  as  possible  to  baptise 
the  child  and  make  the  cross  over  him.  So  one 
afternoon,  the  mite  being  then  a  bare  fortnight  old, 
she  left  him  asleep  in  his  cradle  and,  wrapping  a 
shawl  over  her  head,  hurried  off  to  seek  Meriden  the 
Priest. 

Meriden  the  Priest  dwelt  in  a  hut  among  the 
sandhills,  a  bowshot  beyond  St.  Gwithian's  Chapel 
on  the  seaward  side,  as  you  go  out  to  Godrevy.  He 
had  spent  the  day  in  barking  his  nets,  and  was  spread- 
ing them  out  to  dry  on  the  short  turf  of  the  towans  ; 
but  on  hearing  Lovey's  errand,  he  good-naturedly 
dropped  his  occupation  and,  staying  only  to  fill  a 
bottle  with  holy  water,  walked  back  with  her  to  her 
home. 

As  they  drew  near,  Lovey  was  somewhat  perturbed 

118 


OUR    LADY    OF    GWITHIAN 

to  see  that  the  door,  which  she  had  carefully 
closed,  was  standing  wide  open.  She  guessed,  how- 
ever, that  a  neighbour  had  called  in  her  absence,  and 
would  be  inside  keeping  watch  over  the  child.  As  she 
reached  the  threshold,  the  dreadful  truth  broke  upon 
her :  the  kitchen  was  empty,  and  so  was  the  cradle  ! 

It  made  her  frantic  for  a  while.  Meriden  the  Priest 
offered  what  consolation  he  could,  and  suggested  that 
one  of  her  neighbours  had  called  indeed,  and,  finding 
the  baby  alone  in  the  cottage,  had  taken  it  off  to  her 
own  home  to  guard  it.  But  this  he  felt  to  be  a 
forlorn  hope,  and  it  proved  a  vain  one.  Neither 
search  nor  inquiry  could  trace  the  infant.  Beyond 
a  doubt  the  Piskies  had  carried  him  off. 

When  this  was  established  so  that  even  the  hope- 
fullest  of  the  good-wives  shook  her  head  over  it, 
Lovey  grew  calm  of  a  sudden  and  (as  it  seemed)  with 
the  calm  of  despair.     She  grew  obstinate  too. 

"  My  blessed  cheeld  !  "  she  kept  repeating.  "  The 
tender  worm  of  en  !  But  I  '11  have  en  back,  if  I  've  to 
go  to  the  naughty  place  to  fetch  en.  Why,  what 
sort  of  a  tale  be  I  to  pitch  to  my  Dan'l,  if  he  comes 
home  and  his  firstborn  gone  ? 

They  shook  their  heads  again  over  this.  It  would 
be  a  brave  blow  for  the  man,  but  (said  one  to  another) 
he  that  marries  a  fool  must  look  for  thorns  in  his  bed. 

"  What 's  done  can't  be  undone,"  they  told  her. 
"  You  'd  best  let  a  two-three  of  us  stay  the  night  and 
coax  'ee  from  frettm'.  It 's  bad  for  the  system,  and 
you  so  soon  over  child-birth." 

119 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Lovey  opened  her  eyes  wide  on  them. 

"  Lord's  sake  !  "  she  said,  "  you  don't  reckon  I  'm 
goin'  to  sit  down  under  this  ?  What  ? — and  him  the 
beautifullest,  straightest  cheeld  that  ever  was  in 
Gwithian  Parish  !  Go'st  thy  ways  home,  every  wan. 
Piskies  steal  my  cheeld  an'  Dan'l's,  would  they  ? 
I  '11  pisky  'em!" 

She  showed  them  forth — "  put  them  to  doors  "  as 
we  say  in  the  Duchy — every  one,  the  Priest  included. 
She  would  have  none  of  their  consolation. 

'  You  mean  it  kindly,  naybors,  I  don't  say  ;  but 
tiddn'  what  I  happen  to  want.  I  wants  my  cheeld 
back  ;    an'  I  '11  have'n  back,  what 's  more  !  " 

They  went  their  ways,  agreeing  that  the  woman 
was  doited.  Lovey  closed  the  door  upon  them, 
bolted  it,  and  sat  for  hours  staring  at  the  empty 
cradle.  Through  the  unglazed  window  she  could  see 
the  stars  ;  and  when  these  told  her  that  midnight 
was  near,  she  put  on  her  shawl  again,  drew  the  bolt, 
and  fared  forth  over  the  towans.  At  first  the  stars 
guided  her,  and  the  slant  of  the  night-wind  on  her 
face  ;  but  by  and  by,  in  a  dip  between  the  hills,  she 
spied  her  mark  and  steered  for  it.  This  was  the  spark 
within  St.  Gwithian's  Chapel,  where  day  and  night  a 
tiny  oil  lamp,  with  a  floating  wick,  burned  before  the 
image  of  Our  Lady. 

Meriden  the  Priest  kept  the  lamp  filled,  the  wick 
trimmed,  year  in  and  year  out.  But  he,  good  man, 
after  remembering  Lovey  in  his  prayers,  was  laid 
asleep  and  snoring  within  his  hut,  a  bowshot  away. 

120 


OUR    LADY    OF    GWITHIAN 

The  chapel-door  opened  softly  to  Lovey's  hand, 
and  she  crept  up  to  Mary's  image,  and  abased 
herself  before  it. 

"  Dear  Aun'  Mary,"  she  whispered,  "  the  Piskies 
have  taken  my  cheeld  !  You  d'knaw  what  that 
means  to  a  poor  female — you  there,  cuddlin'  your 
liddle  Jesus  in  the  crook  o'  your  arm.  An'  you  d' 
knaw  likewise  what  these  Piskies  be  like  ;  spiteful 
li'l  toads,  same  as  you  or  I  might  be  if  happen  we  'd 
died  unchristened  an'  hadn'  no  share  in  heaven  nor 
hell  nor  middle-earth.  But  that 's  no  excuse.  Aun' 
Mary,  my  dear,  I  want  my  cheeld  back !  "  said  she. 
That  was  all  Lovey  prayed.  Without  more  ado  she 
bobbed  a  curtsy,  crept  from  the  chapel,  closed  the 
door,  and  way-to-go  back  to  her  cottage. 

When  she  reached  it  and  struck  a  light  in  the 
kitchen  she  more  than  half  expected  to  hear  the 
child  cry  to  her  from  his  cradle.  But,  for  all  that 
Meriden  the  Priest  had  told  her  concerning  the  Virgin 
and  her  power,  there  the  cradle  stood  empty. 

"  Well-a-well !  "  breathed  Lovey.  "  The  gentry 
are  not  to  be  hurried,  I  reckon.  I  '11  fit  and  lie  down 
for  forty  winks,"  she  said  ;  "  though  I  do  think, 
with  her  experience,  Mary  might  have  remembered 
the  poor  mite  would  be  famished  afore  this,  not  to 
mention  that  the  milk  in  me  is  beginnin'  to  hurt 
cruel." 

She  did  off  some  of  her  clothes  and  lay  down,  and 
even  slept  a  little  in  spite  of  the  pain  in  her  breasts  ; 
but  awoke  a  good  two  hours  before  dawn,  to  find  no 

121 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

baby  restored  to  her  arms,  nor  even  (when  she  looked) 
was  it  back  in  its  cradle. 

"  This  '11  never  do,"  said  Lovey.  On  went  her 
shawl  again,  and  once  again  she  faced  the  night  and 
hurried  across  the  towans  to  St.  Gwithian's  Chapel. 
There  in  her  niche  stood  Our  Lady,  quite  as  though 
nothing  had  happened,  with  the  infant  Christ  in  her 
arms  and  the  tiny  lamp  burning  at  her  feet. 

"  Aim'  Mary,  Aun'  Mary,"  said  Lovey,  speaking 
up  sharp,  "  this  iddn'  no  sense  't  all  !  A  person 
would  think  time  was  no  objic,  the  way  you  stick 
there  starin',  an'  my  poor  cheeld  leary  with  hunger 
afore  now — as  you,  bein'  a  mother,  oft  to  knaw.  Fit 
an'  fetch  en  home  to  me  quick.  Aw,  do'ee  co', 
that 's  a  dear  soul  !  " 

But  Our  Lady  stood  there  and  made  no  sign. 

"  I  don't  understand  'ee  't  all,"  Lovey  groaned. 
41  'Tiddn'  the  way  I  'd  behave  in  your  place,  and 
you  d'knaw  it." 

Still  Our  Lady  made  no  sign. 

Lovey  grew  desperate. 

"  Aw,  very  well,  then  !  "  she  cried.  "  Try  what  it 
feels  like  without  your  liddle  Jesus  !  " 

And  reaching  up  a  hand,  she  snatched  at  the  Holy 
Child  that  fitted  into  a  stone  socket  on  Our  Lady's 
arm.  It  came  away  in  her  grasp,  and  she  fled, 
tucking  it  under  her  shawl. 

All  the  way  home  Lovey  looked  for  the  earth  to 
gape  and  swallow  her,  or  a  hand  to  reach  down  from 
heaven  and  grip  her  by  the  hair ;  and  all  the  way  she 


122 


OUR    LADY    OF    GWITHIAN 

seemed  to  hear  Our  Lady's  feet  padding  after  her  in 
the  darkness.  But  she  never  stopped  nor  stayed 
until  she  reached  home  ;  and  there,  flinging  in 
through  the  door  and  slamming-to  the  bolt  behind 
her,  she  made  one  spring  for  the  bed,  and  slid  down 
in  it,  cowering  over  the  small  stone  image. 

Rat-a-tat  !  tat ! — someone  knocked  on  the  door  so 
that  the  cottage  shook. 

"  Knock  away  !  "  said  Lovey.  "  Whoever  thee 
be,  thee  'rt  not  my  cheeld." 

Rat-a-tat  I    tat ! 

"  My  cheeld  wouldn'  be  knockin' :  he  's  got  neither 
strength  nor  sproil  for  it.  An'  you  may  fetch  Michael 
and  all  his  Angels,  to  tear  me  in  pieces,"  said  Lovey  ; 
"  but  till  I  hear  my  own  cheeld  creen  to  me,  I  '11 
keep  what  I  have  !  " 

Thereupon  Lovey  sat  up,  listening.  For  outside 
she  heard  a  feeble  wail. 

She  slipped  out  of  bed.  Holding  the  image  tight 
in  her  right  arm,  she  drew  the  bolt  cautiously.  On 
the  threshold,  at  her  feet,  lay  her  own  babe,  nestling 
in  a  bed  of  bracken. 

She  would  have  stooped  at  once  and  snatched  him 
to  her.  But  the  stone  Christling  hampered  her,  lying 
so  heavily  in  her  arm.  For  a  moment,  fearing 
trickery,  she  had  a  mind  to  hurl  it  far  out  of  doors 
into  the  night.  ...  It  would  fall  without  much 
hurt  into  the  soft  sand  of  the  towans.  But  on  a 
second  thought  she  held  it  forth  gently  in  her  two 
hands. 


123 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

"  I  never  meant  to  hurt  'en,  Aun'  Mary,"  she  said. 
"  But  a  firstborn  's  a  firstborn,  be  we  gentle  or 
simple." 

In  the  darkness  a  pair  of  invisible  hands  reached 
forward  and  took  her  hostage. 

*  *  *  *  * 

When  it  was  known  that  the  Piskies  had  repented 
and  restored  Lovey  Bussow's  child  to  her,  the  neigh- 
bours agreed  that  fools  have  most  of  the  luck  in  this 
world  ;  but  came  nevertheless  to  offer  their  congratu- 
lations. Meriden  the  Priest  came  also.  He  wanted 
to  know  how  it  had  happened  ;  for  the  Piskies  do  not 
easily  surrender  a  child  they  have  stolen. 

Lovey — standing  very  demure,  and  smoothing  her 
apron  down  along  her  thighs — confessed  that  she  had 
laid  her  trouble  before  Our  Lady. 

"  A  miracle,  then  !  "  exclaimed  his  Reverence. 
"  What  height  !     What  depth  !  " 

"That's  of  it,"  agreed  Lovey.  "Aw,  b'lieve 
me,  your  Reverence,  we  mothers  understand  wan 
another." 


124 


Pilot  Mattheys  Christmas 


Pilot  Matthey  came  down  to  the  little  fishing-quay 
at  five  p.m.  or  thereabouts.  He  is  an  elderly  man, 
tall  and  sizeable,  with  a  grizzled  beard  and  eyes 
innocent-tender  as  a  child's,  but  set  in  deep  crow's- 
feet  at  the  corners,  as  all  seamen's  eyes  are.  It 
comes  of  facing  the  wind. 

Pilot  Matthey  spent  the  fore-half  of  his  life  at  the 
fishing.  Thence  he  won  his  way  to  be  a  Trinity  pilot, 
and  wears  such  portions  of  an  old  uniform  as  he 
remembers  to  don.  He  has  six  sons  and  four 
daughters,  all  brought  up  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord, 
and  is  very  much  of  a  prophet  in  our  Israel.  One 
of  the  sons  works  with  him  as  apprentice,  the  other 
five  follow  the  fishing. 

He  came  down  to  the  quay  soon  after  tea-time, 
about  half-an-hour  before  the  luggers  were  due  to 
put  out.  Some  twenty-five  or  thirty  men  were 
already  gathered,  dandering  to  and  fro  with  hands 
in  pockets,  or  seated  on  the  bench  under  the  sea  wall, 
wraiting  for  the  tide  to  serve.  About  an  equal 
number  were  below  in  the  boats,  getting  things  ready. 

There  was  nothing  unusual  about  Matthey,  save 

125 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

that,  although  it  was  a  warm  evening  in  August, 
he  wore  a  thick  pea-jacket,  and  had  turned  the 
collar  up  about  his  ears.  Nor  (if  you  know  Cornish 
fishermen)  was  there  anything  very  unusual  in 
what  he  did,  albeit  a  stranger  might  well  have 
thought  it  frantic. 

For  some  time  he  walked  to  and  fro,  threading 
his  way  in  and  out  of  the  groups  of  men,  walking 
much  faster  than  they — at  the  best  they  were 
strolling — muttering  the  while  with  his  head  sunk 
low  in  his  jacket  collar,  turning  sharply  when  he 
reached  the  edge  of  the  quay,  or  pausing  a  moment 
or  two,  and  staring  gloomily  at  the  water.  The 
men  watched  him,  yet  not  very  curiously.  They 
knew  what  was  coming. 

Of  a  sudden  he  halted  and  began  to  preach.  He 
preached  of  Redemption  from  Sin,  of  the  Blood  of  the 
Lamb,  of  the  ineffable  bliss  of  Salvation.  His  voice 
rose  in  an  agony  on  the  gentle  twilight :  it  could  be 
heard — entreating,  invoking,  persuading,  wrestling — 
far  across  the  harbour.  The  men  listened  quite 
attentively  until  the  time  came  for  getting  aboard. 
Then  they  stole  away  by  twos  and  threes  down 
the  quay  steps.  Meanwhile,  and  all  the  while, 
preparations  on  the  boats  had  been  going  forward. 

He  was  left  alone  at  length.  Even  the  children 
had  lost  interest  in  him,  and  had  run  off  to  watch 
the  boats  as  they  crept  out  on  the  tide.  He  ceased 
abruptly,  came  across  to  the  beach  where  I  sat 
smoking    my   pipe,  and  dropped  exhausted  beside 

126 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

me.  The  fire  had  died  out  of  him.  He  eyed  me 
almost  shamefacedly  at  first,  by -and -by  more 
boldly. 

"  I  would  give,  sir,"  said  Pilot  Matthey,  "  I 
would  give  half  my  worldly  goods  to  lead  you  to 
the  Lord." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  I.  "  To  my  knowledge  you 
have  risked  more  than  that — your  life — to  save 
men  from  drowning.  But  tell  me — you  that  for 
twenty  minutes  have  been  telling  these  fellows 
how  Christ  feels  towards  them — how  can  you 
know  ?  It  is  hard  enough,  surely,  to  get  inside 
any  man's  feelings.  How  can  you  pretend  to  know 
what  Christ  feels,  or  felt — for  an  instance,  in  the 
Judgment  Hall,  when  Peter  denied  ?  " 

"  Once  I  did,  sir,"  said  Pilot  Matthey,  smoothing 
the  worn  knees  of  his  trousers.  "  It  was  just  that. 
I  '11  tell  you  :— 

"  It  happened  eighteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  on 
the  old  Early  and  Late — yes,  twenty  years  come 
Christmas,  for  I  mind  that  my  eldest  daughter  was 
expectin'  her  first  man-child,  just  then.  You  saw 
him  get  aboard  just  now,  praise  the  Lord  !  But  at 
the  time  we  was  all  nervous  about  it — my  son-in-law, 
Daniel,  bein'  away  with  me  on  the  East  Coast  after 
the  herrings.  I  'd  as  good  as  promised  him  to  be 
back  in  time  for  it — this  bein'  my  first  grandchild, 
an'  due  (so  well  as  we  could  calculate)  any  time 
between  Christmas  an'  New  Year.     Well,  there  was 

127 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

no  sacrifice,  as  it  happened,  in  startin'  for  home — 

the  weather  up  there  kecpin'   monstrous,   an'   the 

catches  not  worth  the  labour.     So  we  turned  down 

Channel,  the  wind  strong  an'  dead  foul — south  at 

first,  then  west-sou'-west — headin'  us  all  the  way, 

and  always  blowin'  from  just  where  'twasn't  wanted. 

This  lasted  us  down  to  the  Wight,  and  we  'd  most 

given  up  hope  to  see  home  before  Christmas,  when 

almost  without  warnin'  it  catched  in  off  the  land — 

pretty  fresh  still,  but  steady — and  bowled  us  down 

past    the    Bill    and   half-way   across    to    the    Start, 

merry  as  heart's  delight.     Then  it  fell  away  again, 

almost  to  a  flat  calm,  and  Daniel  lost  his  temper. 

I  never  allowed  cursin'  on  board  the  Early  and  Late — 

nor,  for  that  matter,  on  any  other  boat  of  mine  ; 

but  if  Daniel  didn't  swear  a  bit  out  of  hearin'  well 

ihen— poor  dear  fellow,  he  's  dead  and  gone  these 

twelve   years    (yes,    sir — drowned)— well   then    I  'm 

•doin'  him  an  injustice.     One  couldn't  help  pitying 

him,  neither.     Didn't  I  know  well  enough  what  it 

felt    like  ?     And    the    awe    of    it,    to    think    it 's 

happenin'  everywhere,  and  ever  since  world  began — 

men  fretting  for  the  wife  and  firstborn,  and  get  tin' 

over  it,   and  goin'   down  to  the  grave  leavin'   the 

firstborn  to  fret  over  his  firstborn  !     It  puts  me  in 

mind  o'  the  old  hemn,  sir  :    'tis  in  the  Wesley  books, 

and  I  can't  think  why  church  folk  leave  out  the 

verse — 

"  '  The  busy  tribes  o'  flesh  and  blood, 
With  all  their  cares  and  fears ' — 

128 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

Ay,  '  cares  and  fears  ; '  that 's  of  it — 

"  '  Are  carried  downward  by  the  flood, 
And  lost  in  folio  win'  years.' 

"  Poor  Daniel — poor  boy  !  " 

Pilot  Matthey  sat  silent  for  a  while,  staring  out 
over  the  water  in  the  wake  of  the  boats  that 
already  had  begun  to  melt  into  the  shadow  of 
darkness. 

"  Twas  beautiful  sunshiny  weather,  too,  as  I 
mind,"  he  resumed.  "  One  o'  those  calm  spells 
that  happen,  as  often  as  not,  just  about  Christmas. 
I  remember  drawin'  your  attention  to  it,  sir,  one 
Christmas  when  I  passed  you  the  compliments  of 
the  season  ;  and  you  put  it  down  to  kingfishers, 
which  I  thought  strange  at  the  time." 

"  Kingfishers  ?  "  echoed  I,  mystified  for  the 
moment.  "  Oh,  yes " — as  light  broke  on  me — 
"  Halcyon  days,  of  course  !  " 

"  That 's  right,"  Pilot  Matthey  nodded.  "  That  's 
what  you  called  'em.  ...  It  took  us  a  whole 
day  to  work  past  the  tides  of  the  Start.  Then, 
about  sunset,  a  light  draught  off  the  land  helped  us  to 
Bolt  Tail,  and  after  that  we  mostly  drifted  all 
night,  with  here  and  there  a  cat's  paw,  down  across 
Bigbury  Bay.  By  five  in  the  morning  we  were 
inside  the  Eddystone,  with  Plymouth  Sound  open, 
and  by  twelve  noon  we  was  just  in  the  very  same 
place.     It  was  Christmas  Eve,  sir. 

"  I  looked  at  Daniel's  face,   and  then  a  notion 


129 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

struck  me.     It  was  foolish  I  hadn't  thought  of  it 
before. 

"  '  See  here,  boys,'  I  says.  (There  was  three. 
My  second  son,  Sam,  Daniel,  and  Daniel's  brother, 
Dick,  a  youngster  of  sixteen  or  so.)  '  Get  out  the 
boat,  I  says,  and  we  '11  tow  her  into  Plymouth.  If 
you  're  smart  we  may  pluck  her  into  Cattewater  in 
time  for  Daniel  to  catch  a  train  home.  Sam  can  go 
home,  too,  if  he  has  a  mind,  and  the  youngster  can 
stay  and  help  me  look  after  things.  I  've  seen  a 
many  Christmasses,'  said  I,  '  and  I  'd  as  lief  spend 
this  one  at  Plymouth  as  anywhere  else.  You  can 
give  'em  all  my  love,  and  turn  up  again  the  day 
after  Boxin'  Day — and  mind  you  ask  for  excursion 
tickets,'  I  said. 

"  They  tumbled  the  boat  out  fast  enough,  you 
may  be  sure.  Leastways  the  two  men  were  smart 
enough.  But  the  boy  seemed  ready  to  cry,  so 
that  my  heart  smote  me.  '  There  !  '  said  I,  '  and 
Dicky  can  go  too,  if  he  '11  pull  for  it.  I  shan't  mind 
bein'  left  to  myself.  A  redeemed  man  's  never 
lonely — least  of  all  at  Christmas  time.' 

"  Well,  sir,  they  nipped  into  the  boat,  leavin'  me 
aboard  to  steer  ;  and  they  pulled — pulled — like  as 
if  they  'd  pull  their  hearts  out.  But  it  happened 
a  strongish  tide  was  settin'  out  o'  the  Sound,  and 
long  before  we  fetched  past  the  breakwater  I  saw 
there  was  no  chance  to  make  Cattewater  before 
nightfall,  let  alone  their  gettin'  to  the  railway 
station.     I  blamed  myself  that  I  hadn't  thought  of 

130 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

it  earlier,  and  so,  steppin'  forward,  I  called  out  to 
them  to  ease  up — we  wouldn't  struggle  on 
for  Catte  water,  but  drop  hook  in  Jenny  cliff 
Bay,  somewhere  inside  of  the  Merchant  Shipping 
anchorage.  As  things  were,  this  would  save  a 
good  hour — more  likely  two  hours.  '  And,'  said  I, 
'  you  can  take  the  boat,  all  three,  and  leave  her  at 
Barbican  steps.  Tell  the  harbour-master  where  she 
belongs,  and  where  I  'm  laying.  He  '11  see  she  don't 
take  no  harm,  and  you  needn't  fear  but  I  '11  get 
put  ashore  to  her  somehow.  There 's  always 
somebody  passin'  hereabouts.' 

"  '  But  look  'ee  here,  father,'  said  the  boys — 
good  boys  they  were,  too — '  What 's  to  happen  if  it 
comes  on  to  blow  from  south  or  sou'-west,  same  as 
it  blew  at  the  beginning  of  the  week  ?  ' 

"  '  'Tisn't  goin'  to  do  any  such  thing,'  said  I,  for 
I  'd  been  studyin'  the  weather.  '  And,  even  if  it 
should  happen,  I  've  signals  aboard.  'Tisn't  the 
first  time,  sonnies,  I  've  sat  out  a  week-end  on  board 
a  boat,  alone  wi'  the  Redeemer.' 

"  That  settled  it,  sir.  It  relieved  'em  a  bit,  too, 
when  they  spied  another  lugger  already  lyin'  inside 
the  anchorage,  and  made  her  out  for  a  Porthleven 
boat,  the  Maid  in  Two  Minds,  that  had  been 
after  the  herrings  with  the  rest  of  us  up  to  a  fortni't 
ago,  or  maybe  three  weeks  :  since  when  we  hadn't 
seen  her.  As  I  told  you,  the  weather  had  been 
cruel,  and  the  catches  next  to  nothing  ;  and  belike 
she  'd  given  it  up  earlier  than  we  and  pushed  for 

131 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

home.  At  any  rate,  here  she  was.  We  knowed 
her  owners,  as  fishermen  do  ;  but  we  'd  never 
passed  word  with  her,  nor  with  any  of  her  crew. 
T  'd  heard  somewhere — but  where  I  couldn't 
recollect — that  the  skipper  was  a  blasphemous 
man,  given  to  the  drink,  and  passed  by  the  name 
of  Dog  Mitchell ;  but  'twas  hearsay  only.  All 
I  noted,  or  had  a  mind  to  note,  as  we  dropped 
anchor  less  than  a  cable  length  from  her,  was 
that  she  had  no  boat  astern  or  on  deck  (by  which 
I  concluded  the  crew  were  ashore),  and  that 
Dog  Mitchell  himself  was  on  deck.  I  reckernised 
him  through  the  glass.  He  made  no  hail  at  all, 
but  stood  leanin'  by  the  mizzen  and  smokin', 
watchin'  what  we  did.  By  then  the  dark  was 
comin'     down. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  there 
was  no  time  to  be  choice  about  position  ;  no  time 
even  for  the  lads  to  get  aboard  and  pack  their 
bags.  I  ran  forward,  heaved  anchor,  cast  off 
tow-line,  an'  just  ran  below,  and  came  up  with 
an  armful  o'  duds  which  I  tossed  into  the  boat 
as  she  dropped  back  alongside.  I  fished  the  purse 
out  of  my  pocket,  and  two  sovereigns  out  o'  the 
purse.  'That'll  take  'ee  home  and  back,'  said  I, 
passin'  the  money  to  Daniel.  '  So  long,  children  ! 
You  haven't  no  time  to  spare.' 

"  Away  they  pulled,  callin'  back,  '  God  bless 
"ee,  father  !  '  and  the  like  ;  words  I  shan't  forget 
.     .     .     Poor   Daniel  !     .     .     .      And   there,    all   of 

132 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

a  sudden,  was  I,  left  to  spend  Christmas  alone : 
which  didn't  trouble  me  at  all. 

"  'Stead  o'  which,  as  you  might  say,  havin' 
downed  sail  and  made  things  pretty  well  ship-shape 
on  deck,  I  went  below  and  trimmed  and  lit  the  riding 
light.  When  I  came  on  deck  with  it  the  Maid 
in  two  Minds  was  still  in  darkness.  '  That 's 
queer,'  thought  I  ;  but  may  be  the  Early  and  Late's' 
light  reminded  Dog  Mitchell  of  his,  for  a  few 
minutes  later  he  fetched  it  up  and  made  it  fast, 
takin'  an  uncommon  long  time  over  the  job  and 
mutterin'  to  himself  all  the  while.  (For  I  should  tell 
you  {hat,  the  weather  bein'  so  still  and  the  distance 
not  a  hundred  yards,  I  could  hear  every  word). 

"  '  Twas  then,  I  think,  it  first  came  into  my  mind 
that  the  man  was  drunk,  and  five  minutes  later 
I  was  sure  of  it  :  for  on  his  way  aft  he  caught  his 
foot  and  tripped  over  something — one  o'  the  deck- 
leads  maybe — and  the  words  he  ripped  out  'twould 
turn  me  cold  to  repeat.  His  voice  was  thick,  too, 
and  after  cursin'  away  for  half  a  minute  it  dropped 
to  a  sort  of  growl,  same  as  you  '11  hear  a  man  use 
when  he  's  full  o'  drink  and  reckons  he  has  a  grudge 
against  somebody  or  something — he  doesn't  quite 
know  which,  or  what.  Thought  I,  '  'Tis  a  risky 
game  o'  those  others  to  leave  a  poor  chap  alone  in 
that  state.  He  might  catch  the  boat  afire,  for  one 
thing  :  and,  for  another,  he  might  fall  overboard.' 
It  crossed  my  mind,  too,  that  if  he  fell  overboard  I 
hadn't  a  boat  to  pull  for  him. 

133 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  He  went  below  after  that,  and  for  a  couple  of 
hours  no  sound  came  from  the  Maid  in  Two  Minds. 
*  Likely  enough,'  thought  I,  '  he 's  turned  in,  to 
sleep  it  off ;  and  that  's  the  best  could  happen  to 
him  ;  '  and  by-and-by  I  put  the  poor  fellow  clean 
out  o'  my  head.  I  made  myself  a  dish  o'  tea,  got 
out  supper,  and  ate  it  with  a  thankful  heart,  though 
I  missed  the  boys  ;  but,  then  again,  I  no  sooner 
missed  them  than  I  praised  God  they  had  caught 
the  train.  They  would  be  nearin'  home  by  this 
time  ;  and  I  sat  for  a  while  picturin'  it  :  the  kitchen, 
and  the  women-folk  there,  that  must  have  made  up 
their  minds  to  spend  Christmas  without  us  ; 
particularly  Lisbeth  Mary — that  's  my  daughter, 
Daniel's  wife — with  her  mother  to  comfort  her,  an' 
the  firelight  goin'  dinky-dink  round  the  cups  and 
saucers  on  the  dresser.  I  pictured  the  joy  of  it,  too, 
when  Sam  or  Daniel  struck  rat-tat  and  clicked  open 
the  latch,  or  maybe  one  o'  the  gals  pricked  up  an 
ear  at  the  sound  of  their  boots  on  the  cobbles.  I 
'most  hoped  the  lads  hadn't  been  thoughtful  enough 
to  send  on  a  telegram.  My  mind  ran  on  all  this, 
sir  ;  and  then  for  a  moment  it  ran  back  to  myself, 
sittin'  there  cosy  and  snug  after  many  perils,  many 
joys  ;  past  middle-age,  yet  hale  and  strong,  wi'  the 
hand  o'  the  Lord  protectin'  me.  '  The  Lord  is  my 
shepherd  ;  therefore  can  I  lack  nothing.  He  shall 
feed  me  in  a  green  pasture,  and  lead  me  forth  beside 
the  waters  of  comfort.     He  shall  convert  my  soul 


J34 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  sir,  but  of  a 
sudden  a  well  o'  warmth  ran  through  me  and  all 
over  me,  just  like  a  spring  burstin'.  '  Waters  o' 
Comfort  ?  '  Ay,  maybe  .  .  .  maybe.  Funny 
things  happen  on  Christmas  Eve,  they  say.  My  old 
mother  believed  to  her  last  day  that  every  Christmas 
Eve  at  midnight  the  cattle  in  their  stalls  went  down 
on  their  knees,  throughout  the  land     .     .     . 

"  But  the  feelin',  if  you  understand  me,  wasn't 
Christmas-like  at  all.  It  had  started  with  green 
pastures  :  and  green  pastures  ran  in  my  head,  with 
brooks,  and  birds  singin'  away  up  aloft  and  bees 
hummin'  all  'round,  and  the  sunshine  o'  the  Lord 
warmin'  everything  and  warmin'  my  heart  .  .  . 
I  felt  the  walls  of  the  cuddy  chokin'  me  of  a  sudden, 
an'  went  on  deck. 

"  A  fine  night  it  was,  up  there.  Very  clear  with 
a  hint  o'  frost — no  moon.  As  I  remember,  she  was 
in  her  first  quarter  and  had  gone  down  some  while. 
The  tide  had  turned  and  was  makin'  in  steady.  I 
could  hear  it  clap-clappin'  past  the  Maid  in  Two 
Minds — she  lay  a  little  outside  of  us,  to  seaward,  and 
we  had  swung  so  that  her  ridin'  light  come  over  our 
starboard  bow.  Out  beyond  her  the  lighthouse  on 
the  breakwater  kept  flashin' — it 's  red  over  the 
anchorage — an'  away  beyond  that  the  'Stone. 
Astern  was  all  the  half-circle  o'  Plymouth  lights — 
like  the  front  of  a  crown  o'  glory.  And  the  stars 
overhead,  sir  ! — not  so  much  as  a  wisp  o'  cloud  to 
hide  'em. 


i35 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  '  Where  is  He  that  is  born  King  of  the  Jews  ? 
for  we  have  seen  His  star  in  the  east  .  .  .'  I  'd 
always  been  curious  about  that  star,  sir, — whether 
'twas  an  ordinary  one  or  one  sent  by  miracle  :  and, 
years  before,  I  'd  argued  it  out  that  the  Lord  wouldn't 
send  one  like  a  flash  in  the  pan,  but — bein'  thoughtful 
in  all  things — would  leave  it  to  come  back  constant 
every  year  and  bring  assurance,  if  we  looked  for  it. 
After  that,  I  began  to  look  regularly,  studying  the 
sky  from  the  first  week  of  December  on  to  Christmas  : 
and  'twasn't  long  before  I  felt  certain.  Tis  a  star — 
they  call  it  Regulus  in  the  books,  for  I  've  looked  it 
out — that  gets  up  in  the  south-east  in  December 
month  :  pretty  low,  and  yet  full  high  enough  to  stand 
over  a  cottage  ;  one  o'  the  brightest  too,  and  easily 
known,  for  it  carries  five  other  stars  set  like  a  reap- 
hook  just  above  it. 

"  Well,  I  looked  to  the  south-east,  and  there  my 
star  stood  blazin',  just  over  the  dark  o'  the  land, 
with  its  reap-hook  over  its  forehead.  '  The  people 
that  walked  in  darkness  have   seen   a  great  light 

y 

"  While  I  stood  staring  at  it,  thinkin'  my  thoughts, 
there  came  a  noise  all  of  a  sudden  from  the  other 
lugger,  as  if  someone  had  kicked  over  a  table  down 
below,  and  upset  half-a-dozen  pots  and  pans.  Then, 
almost  before  I  had  time  to  wonder,  I  heard  Dog 
Mitchell  scramble  forth  on  deck,  find  his  feet  in  a 
scufflin'  way,  and  start  travisin'  forth  and  back, 
forth  and  back,  talkin'  to  himself  all  the  while  and 

136 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTxVEAS 

cursin'.  He  was  fairly  chewin'  curses.  I  guessed 
what  was  the  matter.  He  had  been  down  below 
toppin'  things  up  with  a  last  soak  of  neat  whisky, 
and  now  he  had  the  shakes  on  him,  or  the 
beginnings  of  'em. 

"  You  know  the  savin',  '  A  fisherman's  walk 
— two  steps,  an'  overboard  ?  .  .  .  I  tell  you 
I  was  in  misery  for  the  man.  Any  moment  he  might 
lurch  overboard,  or  also  throw  himself  over — one 
as  likely  as  another  with  a  poor  chap  in  that  state. 
Yet  how  could  I  help  ? — cut  off,  without  boat  or  any 
means  to  get  to  him  ? 

"  Forth  and  back  he  kept  goin',  in  his  heavy  sea- 
boots.  I  could  hear  every  step  he  took,  and  when 
he  kicked  against  the  hatchway-coamin'  (he  did  this 
scores  o'  times)  and  when  he  stood  still  and  spat 
overboard.  Once  he  tripped  over  the  ship's  mop 
— got  the  handle  a-foul  of  his  legs,  and  talked  to  it 
like  a  pers'nal  enemy.     Terrible  language — terrible  t 

"  It  struck  me  after  a  bit  " — here  Pilot  Matthey 
turned  to  me  with  one  of  those  shy  smiles  which,  as 
they  reveal  his  childish,  simple  heart,  compel  you  to 
love  the  man.  "  It  struck  me  after  a  bit  that  a  hemn- 
tune  mightn't  come  amiss  to  a  man  in  that  distress, 
of  mind.  So  I  pitched  to  sing  that  grand  old  tune,. 
'  Partners  of  a  glorious  hope,'  a  bit  low  at  first,  but 
louder  as  I  picked  up  confidence.  Soon  as  he  heard 
it  he  stopped  short,  and  called  out  to  me  to  shut  my 
head.  So,  findin'  that  hemns  only  excited  him,  I 
sat  quiet,  while  he  picked  up  his  tramp  again. 


l37 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  I  had  allowed  to  n^self  that  'twould  be  all  right 
soon  after  eleven,  when  the  publics  closed,  and  his 
mates  would  be  turnin'  up,  to  take  care  of  him. 
But  eleven  o'clock  struck,  back  in  the  town  ;  and 
the  quarters,  and  then  twelve  ;  and  still  no  boat 
came  off  from  shore.  Then,  soon  after  twelve, 
he  grew  quiet  of  a  sudden.  The  trampin' 
stopped.  I  reckoned  he  'd  gone  below,  though  I 
couldn't  be  certain.  But  bein'  by  this  time  pretty 
cold  with  watchin',  and  dog-tired,  I  tumbled  below 
and  into  my  bunk.  I  must  have  been  uneasy  though, 
for  I  didn't  take  off  more  'n  my  boots. 

"  What 's  more  I  couldn't  have  slept  more  than 
a  dog's  sleep.  For  I  woke  up  sudden  to  the  noise  of 
a  splash — it  seemed  I  'd  been  waitin'  for  it — and  was 
up  on  deck  in  two  shakes. 

"  Yes,  the  chap  was  overboard,  fast  enough — I 
heard  a  sort  of  gurgle  as  he  came  to  the  surface,  and 
some  sort  of  attempt  at  a  cry.  Before  he  went  under 
again,  the  tide  drifted  his  head  like  a  little  black  buoy 
across  the  ray  of  our  ridin'  light.  So  overboard  I 
jumped,  and  struck  out  for  him." 

At  this  point — the  exciting  point — Pilot  Matthey's 
narrative  halted,  hesitated,  grew  meagre  and  ragged. 

"  I  got  a  grip  on  him  as  he  rose.  He  couldn't 
swim  better  'n  a  few  strokes  at  the  best.  (So  many 
of  our  boys  won't  larn  to  swim — they  say  it  only 
lengthens  things  out  when  your  time  comes)  .  .  . 
The  man  was  drownin',  but  he  had  sproil  enough  to 
catch  at  me  and  try  to  pull  me  under  along  with  him. 

138 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

I  knew  that  trick,  though,  luckily  ...  I  got  him 
round  on  his  back,  with  my  hands  under  his  armpits, 
and  kicked  out  for  the  Maid  in  Two  Minds. 

'Tisn't  easy  to  climb  straight  out  o'  the  water 
and  board  a  lugger — not  at  the  best  of  times,  when 
you  've  only  yourself  to  look  after ;  and  the  Maid  in 
Two  Minds  had  no  accommodation-ladder  hung  out 
.  .  .  But,  as  luck  would  have  it,  they  'd  downed  sail 
anyhow  and,  among  other  things,  left  the  out-haul 
of  the  mizzen  danglin'  slack  and  close  to  the  water. 
I  reached  for  this,  shortened  up  on  it  till  I  had  it  taut, 
and  gave  it  into  his  hand  to  cling  by — which  he  had 
the  sense  to  do,  havin'  fetched  back  some  of  his  wits. 
After  that  I  scrambled  on  to  the  mizzen-boom 
somehow  and  hauled  him  aboard  mainly  by  his  shirt 
collar  and  guernsey.  It  was  a  job,  too  ;  and  the 
first  thing  he  did  on  deck  was  to  reach  his  head 
overside  and  be  vi'lently  sick. 

"  He  couldn't  have  done  better.  When  he  'd 
finished  I  took  charge,  hurried  him  below — my  !  the 
mess  down  there  ! — and  got  him  into  somebody's 
dry  clothes.  All  the  time  he  was  whimperin'  and 
shiverin'  ;  and  he  whimpered  and  shivered  still 
when  I  coaxed  him  into  his  bunk  and  tucked  him  up 
in  every  rug  I  could  find.  There  was  a  bottle  of 
whisky,  pretty  near  empty,  'pon  the  table.  Seein' 
how  wistful  the  poor  chap  looked  at  it,  and  mindin' 
how  much  whisky  and  salt  water  he  'd  got  rid  of, 
I  mixed  the  dregs  of  it  with  a  little  hot  water  off  the 
stove,  and  poured  it  into  him.     Then  I  filled  up  the 

i39 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

bottle  with  hot  water,  corked  it  hard,  and  slipped  it 
down  under  the  blankets,  to  warm  his  feet. 

That 's  all  right,  matey,'  said  he,  his  teeth 
chatterin'  as  I  snugged  him  down.  '  But  cut  along 
and  leave  me  afore  the  others  come.' 

"  Well,  that  was  sense  in  its  way,  though  he  didn't 
seem  to  take  account  that  there  was  only  one  way 
back  for  me — the  way  I  'd  come." 

"  *  You  '11  do,  all  right  ?  '  said  I. 

"  '  I  '11  do  right  enough  now,'  said  he.  '  You  cut 
along.' 

"  So  I  left  him.  I  was  that  chilled  in  my  drippin' 
clothes,  the  second  swim  did  me  more  good  than 
harm.  When  I  got  to  the  Early  and  Late,  though, 
I  was  pretty  dead  beat,  and  it  cost  me  half-a-dozen 
tries  before  I  could  heave  myself  on  to  the  accom- 
modation ladder.  Hows'ever,  once  on  board  I  had 
a  strip  and  a  good  rub-down,  and  tumbled  to  bed 
glowin'  like  a  babby. 

"  I  slept  like  a  top,  too,  this  time.  What  woke 
me  was  a  voice  close  abeam,  hailin'  the  Early  and 
Late  ;  and  there  was  a  brisk,  brass-bound  young  chap 
alongside  in  a  steam-launch,  explainin'  as  he  'd 
brought  out  the  boat,  and  why  the  harbour-master 
hadn't  sent  her  out  last  night.  '  As  requested  by 
your  crew,  Cap'n.'  '  That 's  very  polite  o'  them  and 
o'  you,  and  o'  the  habour-master,'  said  I  ;  '  and  I 
wish  you  the  compliments  o'  the  season.'  For  I 
liked  the  looks  of  him  there,  smiling  up  in  an  obliging 
way,  and  Plymouth  bells  behind  him  all  sounding 

140 


PILOT    MATTHEY'S    CHRISTMAS 

to  Church  together  for  Christmas.  '  Same  to  you, 
Cap'n  ! '  he  called  out,  and  sheered  off  with  a  wave 
o'  the  hand,  having  made  the  boat  fast  astern. 

"  I  stared  after  him  for  a  bit,  and  then  I  turned 
my  attention  to  the  Maid  in  Two  Minds.  Her  boat, 
too,  lay  astern  of  her  ;  and  one  of  her  crew  was 
already  on  deck,  swabbin'  down.  After  a  bit, 
another  showed  up.  But  Dog  Mitchell  made  no 
appearance. 

"  Nat' rally  enough  my  thoughts  ran  on  him  durin' 
breakfast ;  and,  when  'twas  done,  I  dressed  myself 
and  pulled  over  to  inquire.  By  this  time  all  three 
of  his  mates  were  on  deck,  and  as  I  pulled  close  they 
drew  together — much  as  to  ask  what  I  wanted. 

"  '  I  came  across,'  says  I,  '  to  ask  after  the  boss. 
Is  he  all  right  this  morning  ?  ' 

Why  not  ?  '  asked  one  o'  the  men,  suspicious- 
like,  with  a  glance  at  the  others.  They  were  all 
pretty  yellow  in  the  gills  after  their  night 
ashore. 

What 's  up  ?  '  says  Dog  Mitchell's  own  voice 
on  top  o'  this :  and  the  man  heaved  himself  on  deck 
and  looked  down  on  me. 

"  '  It 's  the  skipper  of  the  Early  and  Late,'  said 
one  of  the  fellows  grinning ;  '  as  seems  to  say  he  has 
the  pleasure  o'  your  acquaintance.' 

"  '  Does  he  ? '  said  Dog  Mitchell  slowly,  chewing. 
The  man's  eyes  were  bleared  yet,  but  the  drink  had 
gone  out  of  him  with  his  shock  :  or  the  few  hours' 
sleep  had  picked  him  round.     He  hardened  his  eyes 

141 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

on  me,  anyway,  and  says  he — '  Does  he  ?  Then 
he  's  a  bloody  liar  !  ' 

"  I  didn't  make  no  answer,  sir.  I  saw  what  he 
had  in  mind — that  I  'd  come  off  on  the  first 
opportunity,  cadgin'  for  some  reward.  I  turned 
the  boat's  head  about,  and  started  to  pull  back  for 
the  Early  and  Late.  The  men  laughed  after  me, 
jeering-like.  And  Dog  Mitchell,  he  laughed  too 
in  the  wake  o'  them,  with  a  kind  of  challenge  as  he 
saw  my  lack  o'  pluck.  And  away  back  in  Plymouth 
the  bells  kept  on  ringing. 

"  That 's  the  story.  You  asked  how  I  could  tell 
what  the  blessed  Lord  felt  like  when  Peter  denied. 
I  don't  know.  But  I  seemed  to  feel  like  it,  just 
that  once." 


142 


The   Mont-Bazillac 


I  have  a  sincere  respect  and  liking  for  the  Vicar  of 
Gantick — "  th'  old  Parson  Kendall,"  as  we  call 
him — but  have  somewhat  avoided  his  hospitality 
since  Mrs.  Kendall  took  up  with  the  teetotal  craze. 
I  say  nothing  against  the  lady's  renouncing,  an  she 
choose,  the  light  dinner  claret,  the  cider,  the  port 
(pale  with  long  maturing  in  the  wood)  which  her 
table  afforded  of  yore  :  nor  do  I  believe  that  the 
Vicar,  excellent  man,  repines  deeply — though  I  once 
caught  the  faint  sound  of  a  sigh  as  we  stood  together 
and  conned  his  apple-trees,  ungarnered,  shedding 
their  fruit  at  random  in  the  long  grasses.  For 
his  glebe  contains  a  lordly  orchard,  and  it  used  to  be 
a  treat  to  watch  him,  his  greenish  third-best  coat 
stuck  all  over  with  apple-pips  and  shreds  of  pomace, 
as  he  helped  to  work  the  press  at  the  great  annual 
cider-making.  But  I  agree  with  their  son,  Master 
Dick,  that  "  it  's  rough  on  the  guests." 

Master  Dick  is  now  in  his  second  year  at  Oxford  ; 
and  it  was  probably  for  his  sake,  to  remove  tempta- 
tion from  the  growing  lad,  that  Mrs.  Kendall  first 
discovered   the   wickedness   of   all   alcoholic   drink. 


J43 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

Were  he  not  an  ordinary,  good-natured  boy — had  he, 
as  they  say,  an  ounce  of  vice  in  him — I  doubt  the 
good  lady's  method  might  go  some  way  towards 
defeating  her  purpose.  As  things  are,  it  will  probably 
take  no  worse  revenge  upon  her  than  by  weaning 
him  insensibly  away  from  home,  to  use  his  vacation- 
times  in  learning  to  be  a  man. 

Last  Long  Vacation,  in  company  with  a  friend  he 
calls  Jinks,  Master  Dick  took  a  Canadian  canoe  out  to 
Bordeaux  by  steamer,  and  spent  six  adventurous 
weeks  in  descending  the  Dordogne  and  exploring  the 
Garonne  with  its  tributaries.  On  his  return  he  walked 
over  to  find  me  smoking  in  my  garden  after  dinner, 
and  gave  me  a  gleeful  account  of  his  itinerary. 

.     and  the  next  place  we  came  to  was 
Bergerac,"  said  he,  after  ten  minutes  of  it. 

"  Ah  !  "   I  murmured.     "  Bergerac  !  " 

"  You  know  it  ? 

"  Passably  well,"  said  I.  "  It  lies  toward  the  edge 
of  the  claret  country  ;  but  it  grows  astonishing  claret. 
When  I  was  your  age  it  grew  a  wine  yet  more 
astonishing." 

"  Hullo  !  "  Master  Dick  paused  in  the  act  of 
lighting  his  pipe  and  dropped  the  match  hurriedly 
as  the  flame  scorched  his  fingers. 

■"  It  was  grown  on  a  hill  just  outside  the  town — 
the  Mont-Bazillac.     I  once  drank  a  bottle  of  it." 

"  Lord  !  You  too  ?  ...  Do  tell  me  what 
happened  !  " 

"  Never,"    I    responded    firmly.       "  The    Mont- 

144 


THE    MONT-BAZILLAC 

Bazillac  is  extinct,  swept  out  of  existence  by  the 
phylloxera  when  you  were  a  babe  in  arms.  Infandum 
jubes  renovare — no  one  any  longer  can  tell  you  what 
that  wine  was.  They  made  it  of  the  ripe  grape. 
It  had  the  raisin  flavour  with  something — no  more 
than  a  hint — of  Madeira  in  it  :  the  leathery  tang 
— how  to  describe  it  ?  " 

'  You  need  not  try,  when  I  have  two  bottles  of  it 
at  home,  at  this  moment  !  " 

"  When  I  tell  you "  I  began. 

"  Oh,  but  wait  till  you  've  heard  the  story  !  "  he 
interrupted.  "  As  I  was  saying,  we  came  to  Bergerac 
and  put  up  for  the  night  at  the  Couronne  d'Or — 
first-class  cooking.  Besides  ourselves  there  were 
three  French  bagmen  at  the  table  d'hote.  The  usual 
sort.  Jinks,  who  talks  worse  French  than  I  do  (if 
that  's  possible),  and  doesn't  mind,  got  on  terms 
with  them  at  once.  .  .  .  For  my  part  I  can  always 
hit  it  off  with  a  commercial — it  's  the  sort  of  mind 
that  appeals  to  me — and  these  French  bagmen  do 
know  something  about  eating  and  drinking.  That  's 
how  it  happened.  One  of  them  started  chaffing  us 
about  the  ordinaire  we  were  drinking — quite  a 
respectable  tap,  by  the  way.  He  had  heard  that 
Englishmen  drank  only  the  strongest  wine,  and 
drank  it  in  any  quantities.  Then  another  said  : 
'  Ah,  messieurs,  if  you  would  drink  for  the  honour 
of  England,  justement  you  should  match  yourselves 
here  in  this  town  against  the  famous  Mont-Bazillac' 
What  is  this  Mont-Bazillac  ?  '  we  asked  :  and  they 

145 
10 


NEWS     FROM    THE    DUCHY 

told  us — well,  pretty  much  what  you  told  me  just 
now — adding,  however,  that  the  landlord  kept  a  few 
precious  bottles  of  it.  They  were  quite  fair  in  their 
warnings." 

"  Which,  of  course,  you  disregarded." 
"  For  the  honour  of  England.  We  rang  for  the 
landlord — a  decent  fellow,  Sebillot  by  name — and  at 
first,  I  may  tell  you,  he  wasn't  at  all  keen  on  pro- 
ducing the  stuff ;  kept  protesting  that  he  had  but 
a  small  half-dozen  left,  that  his  daughter  was  to  be 
married  in  the  autumn,  and  he  had  meant  to  keep  it 
for  the  wedding  banquet.  However,  the  bagmen 
helping,  we  persuaded  him  to  bring  up  two  bottles. 
A  frantic  price  it  was,  too — frantic  for  us.  Seven 
francs  a  bottle." 

"  It  was  four  francs  fifty  even  in  my  time." 
"  The  two  bottles  were  opened.  Jinks  took  his, 
and  I  took  mine.  We  had  each  arrosed  the  dinner 
with  about  a  pint  of  Bordeaux  ;  nothing  to  count. 
We  looked  at  each  other  straight.  I  said, '  Be  a  man, 
Jinks  !  A  voire  sante  messieurs  !  '  and  we  started. 
.  .  .  As  you  said  just  now,  it 's  a  most  innocent- 
tasting  wine." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  say  so.  Still,  you 
are  right." 

"  The  fourth  and  fifth  glasses,  too,  seemed  to  have 
no  more  kick  in  them  than  the  first.  .  .  .  Nothing 
much  seemed  to  be  happening,  except  that  Sebillot 
had  brought  in  an  extra  lamp — at  any  rate,  the  room 
was  brighter,  and  I  could  see  the  bagmen's  faces 

146 


THE    MONT-BAZILLAC 

more  distinctly  as  they  smiled  and  congratulated 
us.  I  drank  off  the  last  glass  '  to  the  honour  of 
England,'  and  suggested  to  Jinks — who  had  kept 
pace  with  me,  glass  for  glass — that  we  should  take 
a  stroll  and  view  the  town.  There  was  a  fair  (as  I  had 
heard)  across  the  bridge.  .  .  .  We  stood  up 
together.  I  had  been  feeling  nervous  about  Jinks, 
and  it  came  as  a  relief  to  find  that  he  was  every  bit 
as  steady  on  his  legs  as  I  was.  We  said  good  evening 
to  the  bagmen  and  walked  out  into  the  street.  '  Up 
the  hill  or  down  ?  '  asked  Jinks,  and  I  explained  to 
him  very  clearly  that,  since  rivers  followed  the 
bottoms  of  their  valleys,  we  should  be  safe  in  going 
downhill  if  we  wanted  to  find  the  bridge.  And  I  'd 
scarcely  said  the  words  before  it  flashed  across  me 
that  I  was  drunk  as  Chloe. 

"  Here  's  another  thing. — I  'd  never  been  drunk 
before,  and  I  haven't  been  drunk  since  :  but  all  the 
same  I  knew  that  this  wasn't  the  least  like  ordinary 
drunkenness  :  it  was  too — what  shall  I  say  ? — too 
brilliant.  The  whole  town  of  Bergerac  belonged  to 
me  :  and,  what  was  better,  it  was  lit  so  that  I  could 
steer  my  way  perfectly,  although  the  street  seemed 
to  be  quite  amazingly  full  of  people,  jostling  and 
chattering.  I  turned  to  call  Jinks's  attention  to  this, 
and  was  saying  something  about  a  French  crowd — 
how  much  cheerfuller  it  was  than  your  average 
English  one — when  all  of  a  sudden  Jinks  wasn't 
there  !  No,  nor  the  crowd  !  I  was  alone  on  Bergerac 
bridge,  and  I  leaned  with  both  elbows  on  the  parapet 

147 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

and  gazed   at   the   Dordogne   flowing  beneath   the 
moon. 

"  It  was  not  an  ordinary  river,  for  it  ran  straight 
up  into  the  sky  :  and  the  moon,  unlike  ordinary 
moons,  kept  whizzing  on  an  axis  like  a  Catherine 
wheel,  and  swelled  every  now  and  then  and  burst 
into  showers  of  the  most  dazzling  fireworks.  I 
leaned  there  and  stared  at  the  performance,  feeling 
just  like  a  king — proud,  you  understand,  but  with 
a  sort  of  noble  melancholy.  I  knew  all  the  time  that 
I  was  drunk  ;  but  that  didn't  seem  to  matter.  The 
bagmen  had  told  me " 

I  nodded  again. 

"  That  's  one  of  the  extraordinary  things  about 
the  Mont-Bazillac,"  I  corroborated.  "  It 's  all  over 
in  about  an  hour,  and  there  's  not  (as  the  saying 
goes)  a  headache  in  a  hogshead." 

"  I  wouldn't  quite  say  that,"  said  Dick  reflectively. 
"  But  you  're  partly  right.  All  of  a  sudden  the  moon 
stopped  whizzing,  the  river  lay  down  in  its  bed,  and 
my  head  became  clear  as  a  bell.  '  The  trouble  will 
be,'  I  told  myself,  '  to  find  the  hotel  again.'  But  I 
had  no  trouble  at  all.  My  brain  picked  up  bearing 
after  bearing.  I  worked  back  up  the  street  like  a 
prize  Baden-Powell  scout,  found  the  portico,  re- 
membered the  stairway  to  the  left,  leading  to  the 
lounge,  went  up  it,  and  recognising  the  familiar 
furniture,  dropped  into  an  armchair  with  a  happy 
sigh.  My  only  worry,  as  I  picked  up  a  copy  of 
the  Gil   Bias   and   began    to   study  it,   was   about 

148 


THE    MONT-BAZILLAC 

Jinks.  But,  you  see,  there  wasn't  much  call  to  go 
searching  after  him  when  my  own  experience  told 
me  it  would  be  all  right. 

"  There  were,  maybe,  half  a  dozen  men  in  the 
lounge,  scattered  about  in  the  aimchairs  and  smoking. 
By  and  by,  glancing  up  from  my  newspaper,  I  noticed 
that  two  or  three  had  their  eyes  fixed  on  me  pretty 
curiously.  One  of  them — an  old  boy  with  a  grizzled 
moustache — set  down  his  paper,  and  came  slowly 
across  the  room.  '  Pardon,  monsieur,'  he  said  in  the 
politest  way,  '  but  have  we  the  honour  of  numbering 
you  amongst  our  members  ?  '  '  Good  Lord  !  '  cried 
I,  sitting  up,  '  isn't  this  the  Couronne  d'Or  ?  '  '  Pray 
let  monsieur  not  discommode  himself,'  said  he,  with 
a  quick  no-offence  sort  of  smile,  '  but  he  has  made  a 
little  mistake.     This  is  the  Cercle  Militaire.' 

"  I  must  say  those  French  officers  were  jolly 
decent  about  it  :  especially  when  I  explained  about 
the  Mont-Bazillac.  They  saw  me  back  to  the  hotel 
in  a  body  ;  and  as  we  turned  in  at  the  porch  way, 
who  should  come  down  the  street  but  Jinks,  striding 
elbows  to  side,  like  a  man  in  a  London-to-Brighton 
walking  competition  !  ...  He  told  me,  as  we 
found  our  bedrooms,  that  '  of  course,  he  had  gone  up 
the  hill,  and  that  the  view  had  been  magnificent.' 
I  did  not  argue  about  it,  luckily  :  for — here  comes 
in  another  queer  fact — there  was  no  moon  at  all  that 
night.  Next  morning  I  wheedled  two  more  bottles 
of  the  stuff  out  of  old  Sebillot — which  leaves  him 
two  for  the  wedding.     I  thought  that  you  and  I 

149 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

might  have  some  fun  with  them.    .    .    .    Now  tell 
me  your  experience.'" 

"  That,"  said  I,  "  must  wait  until  you  unlock  my 
tongue ;  if  indeed  you  have  brought  home  the 
genuine  Mont-Bazillac." 

As  it  happened,  Master  Dick  was  called  up  to 
Oxford  unexpectedly,  a  week  before  the  beginning  of 
term,  to  start  practice  in  his  college  "  four."  Our 
experiment  had  to  be  postponed  ;  with  what  result 
you  shall  hear. 

About  a  fortnight  later  I  read  in  our  local  paper 
that  the  Bishop  had  been  holding  a  Confirmation 
service  in  Gantick  Parish  Church.  The  paragraph 
went  on  to  say  that  "  a  large  and  reverent  congrega- 
tion witnessed  the  ceremony,  but  general  regret  was 
expressed  at  the  absence  of  our  respected  Vicar 
through  a  temporary  indisposition.  We  are  glad 
to  assure  our  readers  that  the  reverend  gentleman  is 
well  on  the  way  to  recovery,  and  indeed  has  already 
resumed  his  ministration  in  the  parish,  where  his 
genial  presence  and  quick  sympathies,  etc." 

This  laid  an  obligation  upon  me  to  walk  over 
to  Gantick  and  inquire  about  my  old  friend's 
health  :  which  I  did  that  same  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Kendall  received  me  with  the  information  that  her 
husband  was  quite  well  again,  and  out-and-about ; 
that  in  fact  he  had  started,  immediately  after 
luncheon,  to  pay  a  round  of  visits  on  the  outskirts 


150 


THE    MONT-BAZILLAC 

of  the  parish.  On  the  nature  of  his  late  indisposition 
she  showed  herself  reticent,  not  to  say  "  short  " 
in  her  answers  ;  nor,  though  the  hour  was  four 
o'clock,  did  she  invite  me  to  stay  and  drink  tea 
with  her. 

On  my  way  back,  and  just  within  the  entrance- 
gate  of  the  vicarage  drive,  I  happened  on  old  Trewoon, 
who  works  at  odd  jobs  under  the  gardener,  and  was 
just  now  busy  with  a  besom,  sweeping  up  the  first 
fall  of  autumn  leaves.  Old  Trewoon,  I  should  tell 
you,  is  a  Wesleyan,  and  a  radical  of  the  sardonic  sort ; 
and,  as  a  jobbing  man,  holds  himself  free  to  criticise 
his  employers. 

"  Good  afternoon  !  "  said  I.  "  This  is  excellent 
news  that  I  hear  about  the  Vicar.  I  was  afraid, 
when  I  first  heard  of  his  illness,  that  it  might  be  some- 
thing serious — at  his  age " 

'  Serious  ?  "  Old  Trewoon  rested  his  hands  on 
the  besom-handle  and  eyed  me,  with  a  twist  of 
his  features.  "  Missus  didn'  tell  you  the  natur'  of 
the  complaint,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"Asa  matter  of  fact  she  did  not." 

"  I  bet  she  didn'.  Mind  you,  /  don't  know, 
nuther."  He  up-ended  his  besom  and  plucked  a 
leaf  or  two  from  between  the  twigs  before  adding, 
"  And  what,  makin'  so  bold,  did  she  tell  about 
the  Churchwardens  ?  " 

"  The  Churchwardens  ?  "  I  echoed. 

"  Aye,  the  Churchwardens  :  Matthey  Hancock  an' 
th'  old  Farmer  Truslove.     They  was  took  ill  right 

151 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

about  the  same  time.  Aw,  my  dear  " — Mr.  Trewoon 
addresses  all  mankind  impartially  as  "my  dear  " — 
"  th'  hull  parish  knaws  about  they.  Though  there 
war'nt  no  concealment,  for  that  matter." 

"  What  about  the  Churchwardens  ?  "  I  asked 
innocently,  and  of  a  sudden  became  aware  that  he 
was  rocking  to  and  fro  in  short  spasms  of  inward 
laughter. 

"  — It  started  wi'  the  Bishop's  motor  breakin' 
down  ;  whereby  he  and  his  man  spent  the  better 
part  of  two  hours  in  a  God-forsaken  lane  somewhere 
t'other  side  of  Hen's  Beacon,  tryin'  to  make  her  go. 
He  'd  timed  hisself  to  reach  here  punctual  for  the 
lunchin'  the  Missus  always  has  ready  on  Confirmation 
Day  :  nobody  to  meet  his  Lordship  but  theirselves 
and  the  two  Churchwardens  ;  an'  you  may  guess  that 
Hancock  and  Truslove  had  turned  up  early  in  their 
best  broadcloth,  lookin'  to  have  the  time  o'  their 
lives. 

"  They  were  pretty  keen-set,  too,  by  one  o'clock, 
bein'  used  to  eat  their  dinners  at  noon  sharp.  One 
o'clock  comes — no  Bishop  :  two  o'clock  and  still  no 
Bishop.  '  There  's  been  a  naccydent,'  says  the  Missus  : 
'  but  thank  the  Lord  the  vittles  is  cold  !  '  '  Maybe 
he  've  forgot  the  day,'  says  the  Vicar ;  '  but,  any  way, 
we  '11  give  en  another  ha'f-hour's  grace  an'  then  set- 
to,'  says  he,  takin'  pity  on  the  noises  old  Truslove 
was  makin'  wi'  his  weskit.  ...  So  said,  so  done. 
At  two-thirty — service  bein'  fixed  for  ha'f-after-three 
— they  all  fell  to  work. 

152 


THE    MONT-BAZILLAC 

"  You  d'know,  I  dare  say,  what  a  craze  the  Missus 
have  a-took  o'  late  against  the  drinkin'  habit.  Sally, 
the  parlourmaid,  told  me  as  how,  first  along,  th' 
old  lady  set  out  by  hintin'  that  the  Bishop,  bein'  a 
respecter  o'  conscience,  wouldn'  look  for  anything 
stronger  on  the  table  than  home-brewed  lemonade. 
But  there  the  Vicar  struck  ;  and  findin'  no  way  to 
shake  him,  she  made  terms  by  outin'  with  two 
bottles  o'  wine  that,  to  her  scandal,  she  'd  rummaged 
out  from  a  cupboard  o'  young  Master  Dick's  since  he 
went  back  to  Oxford  College.  She  decanted  'em 
[chuckle],  an'  th'  old  Vicar  allowed,  havin'  tasted 
the  stuff,  that — though  he  had  lost  the  run  o'  wine 
lately,  an'  didn'  reckernise  whether  'twas  port  or 
what-not — seemin'  to  him  'twas  a  sound  wine  and  fit 
for  any  gentleman's  table.  '  Well,  at  any  rate/ 
says  the  Missus,  '  my  boy  shall  be  spared  the  tempta- 
tion :  an'  I  hope  'tis  no  sign  he  's  betaken  hisself  to 
secret  drinkin'  !  ' 

"  Well,  then,  it  was  decanted  :  an'  Hancock  and 
Truslove,  nothin'  doubtful,  begun  to  lap  it  up  like  so 
much  milk — the  Vicar  helpin',  and  the  Missus  rather 
encouragin'  than  not,  to  the  extent  o'  the  first 
decanter  ;  thinkin'  that  'twas  good  riddance  to  the 
stuff  and  that  if  the  Bishop  turned  up,  he  wouldn't 
look,  as  a  holy  man,  for  more  than  ha'f  a  bottle. 
I  'm  tellin'  it  you  as  Sally  told  it  to  me.  She  says 
that  everything  went  on  as  easy  as  eggs  in  a  nest 
until  she  started  to  hand  round  the  sweets,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  she  didn'  know  what  was  happenin'  at 

i53 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

table,  nor  whether  she  was  on  her  head  or  her 
heels.  .  .  .  All  I  can  tell  you,  sir,  is  that  me  and 
Battershall  " — Battershall  is  the  vicarage  gardener, 
stableman,  and  factotum — "  was  waitin'  in  the 
stables,  wonderin'  when  in  the  deuce  the  Bishop 
would  turn  up,  when  we  heard  the  whistle  blown 
from  the  kitchen  :  which  was  the  signal.  Out  we 
ran  ;  an'  there  to  be  sure  was  the  Bishop  comin' 
down  the  drive  in  a  hired  trap.  But  between  him 
and  the  house — slap-bang,  as  you  might  say,  in  the 
middle  of  the  lawn — was  our  two  Churchwardens, 
stripped  mother-naked  to  the  waist,  and  sparring  : 
and  from  the  window  just  over  the  porch  th'  old 
Missus  screaming  out  to  us  to  separate  'em.  No,  nor 
that  wasn't  the  worst  :  for,  as  his  Lordship's  trap 
drove  up,  the  two  tom-fools  stopped  their  boxin'  to 
stand  'pon  their  toes  and  blow  kisses  at  him  ! 

'  I  must  say  that  Battershall  showed  great  presence 
o'  mind.  He  shouted  to  me  to  tackle  Truslove, 
while  he  ran  up  to  Matthey  Hancock  an'  butted  him 
in  the  stomach  ;  an'  together  we  'd  heaved  the  two 
tom-fools  into  the  shrubbery  almost  afore  his  Lord- 
ship could  believe  his  eyes.  I  won't  say  what  had 
happened  to  the  Vicar,  for  I  don't  rightways  know. 
All  I  can  get  out  o'  Sally — she  's  a  modest  wench — 
is  that — that — he  wanted  to  be  a  Statoo  I    .    .    ." 

"  Quite  so,"  I  interrupted,  edging  towards  the  gate 
and  signifying  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand  that  I  had 
heard  enough. 

Old  Trewoon's  voice  followed  me. 


J54 


THE    MONT-BAZILLAC 

"  I  reckon,  sir,  we  best  agree,  for  the  sake  o'  the 
dear  old  fella,  that  such  a  sight  as  them  two  Church- 
wardens was  enough  to  make  any  gentleman  take  to 
his  bed.  But  " — as  the  gate  rang  on  its  hasp  and 
rang  again — "  I  Ve  been  thinkin'  powerful  what 
might  ha'  happened  if  his  Lordship  had  turned  up  in 
due  time  to  partake." 

Master  Dick  is  a  good  boy  :  and  when  we  met  in 
the  Christmas  vacation  no  allusion  was  made  to  the 
Mont-Bazillac.  On  my  part,  I  am  absolved  from 
my  promised  confession,  and  my  lips  shall  remain 
locked.  That  great,  that  exhilarating,  that  redoubt- 
able wine,  has — with  the  nuptials  of  M.  Sebillot's 
daughter — perished  finally  from  earth.  I  wonder 
what  happened  in  Bergerac  on  that  occasion,  and  if 
it  had  a  comparable  apotheosis  ! 


*55 


The  Three  Necklaces 


"  A  great  nation  !  "  said  the  little  Cure.  "  But  yes, 
indeed,  the  English  are  a  very  great  nation.  And 
now  I  have  seen  them  at  home  !  But  it  passes 
expression,  monsieur,  what  a  traveller  I  find 
myself  !  " 

We  stood  together  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer, 
watching — after  an  eight  hours'  passage  from 
Plymouth — the  Breton  coast  as  it  loomed  out  of 
the  afternoon  haze.  .  Our  crossing  had  been  smooth, 
yet  sea-sickness  had  prostrated  all  his  compatriots 
on  board — five  or  six  priests,  as  many  religieuses, 
and  maybe  a  dozen  peasants,  whom  I  supposed  to  be 
attached  in  some  way  to  the  service  of  the  religious 
orders  the  priests  represented.  (Of  late  years,  since 
the  French  Government  expelled  them,  quite  a 
number  of  these  orders  have  found  a  home  in  our 
West-country.)  On  my  way  to  the  docks  that 
morning  I  had  overtaken  and  passed  them  straggling 
by  twos  and  threes  to  the  steamer,  the  men  in  broad- 
brimmed  hats  with  velvet  ribbons,  the  women 
coifed  and  bodiced  after  the  fashion  of  their  country, 

i57 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

each  group  shepherded  by  a  priest ;  and  I  had 
noted  how  strange  and  almost  forlorn  a  figure  they 
cut  in  the  grey  English  streets.  If  some  of  the 
strangeness  had  worn  off,  they  certainly  appeared 
no  less  forlorn  as  they  sat  huddled  in  physical 
anguish,  dumb,  immobile,  staring  at  the  sea. 

The  little  Cure,  however,  was  vivacious  enough 
for  ten.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  making  friends 
with  him.  He  had  nothing  to  do,  he  told  me,  with 
his  companions,  but  was  just  a  plain  parish  priest 
returning  from  an  errand  of  business. 

He  announced  this  with  a  fine  roll  of  the  voice. 

"  Of  business,"  he  repeated.  "  The  English  are  a 
great  nation  for  business.  But  how  warm  of  heart, 
notwithstanding  !  " 

"  That  is  not  always  reckoned  to  us,"  said  I. 

"  But  I  reckon  it  .  .  .  Tenez,  that  will  be 
lie  Vierge — there,  with  the  lighthouse  standing 
white — as  it  were,  against  the  cliffs  ;  but  the  cliffs 
belong  in  fact  to  the  mainland.  .  .  .  And  now 
in  a  few  minutes  we  come  abreast  of  my  parish — the 
lie  Lezan.  .  .  .  See,  see  !  "  He  caught  my 
arm  as  the  tide  raced  us  down  through  the  Passage 
du  Four.  "  My  church — how  her  spire  stands  up  !  " 
He  turned  to  me,  his  voice  shaking  with  emotion. 
"  You  English  are  accustomed  to  travel.  Probably 
you  do  not  guess,  monsieur,  with  what  feelings  I  see 
again  lie  Lezan — I,  who  have  never  crossed  the 
Channel  before  nor  indeed  have  visited  any  foreign 
land.     But  I  am  glad  :   it  spreads  the  mind."     Here 

158 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

he  put  his  hands  together  and  drew  them  apart  as 
though  extending  a  concertina.  "  I  have  seen  you 
English  at  home.  If  monsieur,  who  is  on  tour, 
could  only  spare  the  time  to  visit  me  on  lie  Lezan  !  " 

Well,  the  end  of  it  was  that  before  we  parted  on 
the  quay  at  Brest  1  found  myself  under  half  a  promise, 
and  a  week  later,  having  (as  I  put  it  to  rr^self) 
nothing  better  to  do,  I  took  the  train  to  a  little 
wind-swept  terminus,  whence  a  ramshackle  cart 
jolted  me  to  Port  Lezan,  on  the  coast,  whence  again 
by  sail  and  oar  a  ferry-boat  conveyed  me  over  to  the 
Island. 

My  friend  the  Cure  greeted  me  with  something 
not  far  short  of  ecstasy. 

"  But  this  is  like  you  English — you  keep  your 
word.  .  .  .  You  will  hardly  believe,"  he 
confided,  as  I  shared  his  admirable  dejeuner — soup, 
langouste,  an  incomparable  omelet,  stuffed  veal, 
and  I  forget  what  beside — "  you  will  hardly  believe 
with  what  difficulty  I  bring  myself  back  to  this 
horizon."  He  waved  a  hand  to  the  blue  sea-line 
beyond    his     window.      "  When    one     has     tasted 

progress "     He  broke  off.     "  But,  thanks  be  to 

God,  we  too,  on  lie  Lezan,  are  going  to  progress. 
You  will  visit  my  church  and  see  how  much  we  have 
need." 

He  took  me  to  it  :  a  bleak,  decayed  building,  half 
ruinated,  the  slated  pavement  uneven  as  the  waves 
of  the  sea,  the  plastered  walls  dripping  with  saline 
ooze.     From  the  roof  depended  three  or  four  rudely- 

i5' 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

carved  ships,  hung  there  ex  voto  by  parishioners 
preserved  from  various  perils  of  the  deep.  He 
narrated  their  histories  at  length. 

"  The  roof  leaks,"  he  said,  "  but  we  are  to  remedy 
that.  At  length  the  blessed  Mary  of  Lezan  will  be 
housed,  if  not  as  befits  her,  at  least  not  shamefully." 
He  indicated  a  niched  statue  of  the  Virgin,  with 
daubed  red  cheeks  and  a  robe  of  crude  blue  over- 
spread with  blotches  of  sea-salt.  "  Thanks  to  your 
England,"  he  added. 

"  Why  '  thanks  to  England  '  ?  " 

He  chuckled  —  or  perhaps  I  had  better  say 
chirruped. 

"  Did  I  not  say  I  had  been  visiting  your  country 
on  business  ?  Eh  ?  You  shall  hear  the  story — 
only  I  tell  no  names." 

He  took  snuff. 

"  We  will  call  them,"  he  said,  "  only  by  their 
Christian  names,  which  are  Lucien  and  Jeanne. 
.  .  .  I  am  to  marry  them  next  month,  when 
Lucien  gets  his  relief  from  the  lighthouse  on  lie 
Ouessant. 

"  They  are  an  excellent  couple.  As  between 
them,  the  wits  are  with  Lucien,  who  will  doubtless 
rise  in  his  profession.  He  has  been  through 
temptation,  as  you  shall  hear.  For  Jeanne,  she  is 
un  cceur  simple,  as  again  you  will  discover ;  not 
clever  at  all — oh,  by  no  means  ! — yet  one  of  the  best 
of  my  children.  It  is  really  to  Jeanne  that  we  owo 
it  all.     ...     I  have  said  so  to  Lucien,  and  just 

1 60 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

at    the    moment    Lucien    was    trying    to    say     it 
to  me. 

"  They  were  betrothed,  you  understand.  Lucien 
was  nineteen,  and  Jeanne  maybe  a  year  younger. 
From  the  beginning,  it  had  been  an  understood 
thing :  to  this  extent  understood,  that  Lucien, 
instead  of  sailing  to  the  fishery  (whither  go  most  of 
the  young  men  of  lie  Lezan  and  the  coast 
hereabouts)  was  destined  from  the  first  to  enter  the 
lighthouse  service  under  Government.  The  letters 
I  have  written  to  Government  on  his  behalf  !  .  .  . 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  quarrel  with  the  Republic. 
Still — a  priest,  and  in  this  out-of-the-way  spot — 
what  is  he  ? 

'  However,  Lucien  got  his  appointment.  The 
pay  ?  Enough  to  marry  on,  for  a  free  couple.  But 
the  families  were  poor  on  both  sides — long  families, 
too.  Folk  live  long  on  lie  Lezan — women-folk 
especially  ;  accidents  at  the  fishery  keep  down  the 
men.  Still,  and  allowing  for  that,  the  average  is 
high.  Lucien  had  even  a  great-grandmother  alive — 
a  most  worthy  soul — and  on  Jeanne's  side  the 
grandparents  survived  on  both  sides.  Where  there 
are  grandparents  they  must  be  maintained. 

"  No  one  builds  on  lie  Lezan.  Lucien  and  Jeanne 
— on  either  side  their  families  crowded  to  the  very 
windows.  If  only  the  smallest  hovel  might  fall 
vacant  !  .  .  .  For  a  week  or  two  it  seemed  that 
a  cottage  might  drop  in  their  way  ;  but  it  happened 
to  be  what  you  call  picturesque,  and  a  rich  man 

161 
11 


NEWS     FROM     THE     DUCHY 

snapped  it  up.  He  was  a  stranger  from  Paris,  and 
called  himself  an  artist  ;  but  in  truth  he  painted 
little,  and  that  poorly — as  even  I  could  see.  He  was 
fonder  of  planning  what  he  would  have,  and  what  not, 
to  indulge  his  mood  when  it  should  be  in  the  key  for 
painting.  Happening  here  just  when  the  cottage 
fell  empty,  he  offered  a  price  for  it  far  beyond 
anything  Lucien  could  afford,  and  bought  it.  For 
a  month  or  two  he  played  with  this  new  toy,  adding  a 
studio  and  a  veranda,  and  getting  over  many  large 
crates  of  furniture  from  the  mainland.  Then 
by  and  by  a  restlessness  overtook  him — that  restless- 
ness which  is  the  disease  of  the  rich — and  he  left  us, 
yet  professing  that  it  delighted  him  always  to  keep 
his  little  pied-a-terre  in  tie  Lezan.  He  has  never 
been  at  pains  to  visit  us  since. 

"  But  meanwhile  Lucien  and  Jeanne  had  no  room 
to  marry  and  set  up  house.  It  was  a  heavy  time  for 
them.  They  had  some  talk  together  of  crossing  over 
and  finding  a  house  on  the  mainland  ;  but  it  came 
to  nothing.  The  parents  on  both  sides  would  not 
hear  of  it,  and  in  truth  Jeanne  would  have  found  it 
lonely  on  the  mainland,  away  from  her  friends  and 
kin  ;  for  Lucien,  you  see,  must  in  any  case  spend 
half  his  time  on  the  lighthouse  on  lie  Ouessant. 
So  many  weeks  on  duty,  so  many  weeks  ashore — thus 
it  works,  and  even  so  the  loneliness  wears  them ; 
though  our  Bretons,  being  silent  men  by  nature, 
endure  it  better  than  the  rest. 

"  Lucien     and     Jeanne     must     wait — wait     for 

162 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

somebody  to  die.  In  plain  words  it  came  to  that. 
Ah,  monsieur  !  I  have  heard  well-to-do  folk  talk  of 
our  poor  as  unfeeling.  That  is  an  untruth.  But 
suppose  it  were  true.  Where  would  the  blame  lie 
in  such  a  story  as  this  ?  Like  will  to  like,  and  young 
blood  is  hot.  .  .  .  Lucien  and  Jeanne,  however, 
were  always  well  conducted.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  my 
story  ?  Six  months  passed,  and  then  came  word  that 
our  rich  artist  desired  to  sell  his  little  pied-a-terre  ; 
but  he  demanded  the  price  he  had  given  for  it, 
and  moreover  what  he  called  compensation  for  the 
buildings  he  had  added.  Also  he  would  only  sell 
or  let  it  with  the  furniture  ;  he  wished,  in  short,  to 
disencumber  himself  of  his  purchase,  and  without  loss. 
This  meant  that  Lucien  less  than  ever  could  afford 
to  buy ;  and  there  are  no  money-lenders  on  lie  Lezan. 
The  letter  came  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  departing 
for  another  six  weeks  on  lie  Ouessant :  and  that 
evening  the  lovers'  feet  took  them  to  the  nest  they 
had  so  often  dreamed  of  furnishing.  There  is  no 
prettier  cottage  on  the  island — I  will  show  it  to  you 
on  our  way  back.  Very  disconsolately  they  looked 
at  it,  but  there  was  no  cure.  Lucien  left  early  next 
morning. 

"  That  was  last  autumn,  little  before  the  wreck 
of  your  great  English  steamship  the  Rougemont 
Castle.  Days  after,  the  tides  carried  some  of  the 
bodies  even  here,  to  lie  Lezan  ;  but  not  many — four 
or  five  at  the  most — and  we,  cut  off  from  shore 
around  this  corner  of  the  coast,  were  long  in  hearing 

163 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

the  terrible  news.  Even  the  lighthouse  keepers  on 
lie  Ouessant  knew  nothing  of  it  until  morning,  for 
she  struck  in  the  night,  you  remember,  attempting 
to  run  through  the  Inner  Passage  and  save  her  time. 

"  I  believe — but  on  this  point  will  not  be  certain — 
that  the  alarm  first  came  to  Lucien,  and  in  the  way 
I  shall  tell  you.  At  any  rate  he  was  walking  alone 
in  the  early  morning,  and  somewhere  along  the 
shore  to  the  south  of  the  lighthouse,  when  he  came 
on  a  body  lying  on  the  seaweed  in  a  gully  of  the  rocks. 

"  It  was  the  body  of  a  woman,  clad  only  in  a 
nightdress.  As  he  stooped  over  her,  Lucien  saw  that 
she  was  exceeding  beautiful ;  yet  not  a  girl,  but  a 
well-developed  woman  of  thirty  or  thereabouts,  with 
heavy  coils  of  dark  hair,  well-rounded  shoulders, 
and  (as  he  described  it  to  me  later  on)  a  magnificent 
throat. 

"  He  had  reason  enough  to  remark  her  throat, 
for  as  he  turned  the  body  over — it  lay  on  its  right 
side — to  place  a  hand  over  the  heart,  if  perchance 
some  life  lingered,  the  nightdress,  open  at  the 
throat,  disclosed  one,  two,  three  superb  necklaces 
of  diamonds.  There  were  rings  of  diamonds  on  her 
fingers,  too,  and  afterwards  many  fine  gems  were 
found  sewn  within  a  short  vest  or  camisole  of  silk 
she  wore  under  her  nightdress.  But  Lucien's  eyes 
were  fastened  on  the  three  necklaces. 

"  Doubtless  the  poor  lady,  aroused  in  her  berth 
as  the  ship  struck,  had  clasped  these  hurriedly  about 
her  throat  before  rushing  on  deck.     So,  might  her 

164 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

life  be  spared,  she  would  save  with  it  many 
thousands  of  pounds.  They  tell  me  since  that  in 
moments  of  panic  women  always  think  first  of  their 
j  ewels. 

"  But  here  she  lay  drowned,  and  the  jewels — as  I 
said,  Lucien  could  not  unglue  his  eyes  from  them. 
At  first  he  stared  at  them  stupidly.  Not  for  some 
minutes  did  his  mind  grasp  that  they  represented 
great  wealth ;  and  even  when  the  temptation  grew, 
it  whispered  no  more  than  that  here  was  money — 
maybe  even  a  hundred  pounds — but  enough,  at  all 
events,  added  to  his  savings,  to  purchase  the  cottage 
at  home,  and  make  him  and  Jeanne  happy  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives. 

"  His  fingers  felt  around  to  the  clasps.  One  by 
one  he  detached  the  necklaces  and  slipped  them  into 
his  trousers'  pocket. 

"  He  also  managed  to  pull  off  one  of  the  rings ; 
but  found  this  a  more  difficult  matter,  because  the 
fingers  were  swollen  somewhat  with  the  salt  water. 
So  he  contented  himself  with  one,  and  ran  back  to 
the  lighthouse  to  give  the  alarm  to  his  conrades. 

"  When  his  comrades  saw  the  body  there  was  great 
outcry  upon  the  jewels  on  its  fingers  ;  but  none 
attempted  to  disturb  them,  and  Lucien  kept  his  own 
counsel.  They  carried  the  poor  thing  to  a  store- 
chamber  at  the  base  of  the  lighthouse,  and  there 
before  nightfall  they  had  collected  close  upon  thirty 
bodies.  There  was  much  talk  in  the  newspapers 
afterwards    concerning    the    honesty    of    our    poor 

165 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

Bretons,  who  pillaged  none  of  the  dead,  but  gave  up 
whatever  they  found.  The  relatives  and  the  great 
shipping  company  subscribed  a  fund,  of  which  a 
certain  small  portion  came  even  to  lie  Lezan,  to  be 
administered  by  me. 

"  The  poor  lady  with  the  necklaces  ?  If  you  read 
the  accounts  in  the  newspapers,  as  no  doubt  you  did, 
you  will  already  have  guessed  her  name.  Yes,  in 
truth,  she  was  your  great  soprano,  whom  they  called 
Madame  Chiara,  or  La  Chiara  :  so  modest  are  you 
English,  at  least  in  all  that  concerns  the  arts,  that 
when  an  incomparable  singer  is  born  to  you  she  must 
go  to  Italy  to  borrow  a  name.  She  was  returning 
from  South  Africa,  where  the  finest  of  the  three 
necklaces  had  been  presented  to  her  by  subscription 
amongst  her  admirers.  They  say  her  voice  so 
ravished  the  audiences  at  Johannesburg  and  Pretoria 
that  she  might  almost,  had  she  willed,  have  carried 
home  the  great  diamond  they  are  sending  to  your 
King.  But  that,  no  doubt,  was  an  invention  of  the 
newspapers. 

"  For  certain,  at  any  rate,  the  necklace  was  a 
superb  one  ;  nor  do  I  speak  without  knowledge,  as 
you  shall  hear.  Twenty-seven  large  stones — between 
each  a  lesser  stone — and  all  of  the  purest  water  ! 
The  other  two  were  scarcely  less  magnificent.  It 
was  a  brother  who  came  over  and  certified  the  body  ; 
for  her  husband  she  had  divorced  in  America,  and 
her  father  was  an  English  clergyman,  old  and 
infirm,  seldom  travelling  beyond  the  parish  where 

1 66 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

he  lives  in  a  chateau  and  reigns  as  a  king.  It  seems 
that  these  things  happen  in  England.  At  first  he  was 
only  a  younger  son,  and  dwelt  in  the  rectory  as  a 
plain  parish  priest,  and  there  he  married  and  brought 
up  his  family  ;  but  his  elder  brother  dying,  he  became 
squire  of  the  parish  too,  and  moved  into  the  great 
house,  yet  with  little  money  to  support  it  until  his 
only  daughter  came  back  from  studying  at  Milan 
and  conquered  London.  The  old  gentleman  speaks 
very  modestly  about  it.  Oh,  yes,  I  have  seen  and 
talked  with  him.  And  what  a  garden !  The 
azaleas  !  the  rhododendrons  !  But  he  is  old,  and 
his  senses  somewhat  blunted.  He  lives  in  the 
past — not  his  own,  but  his  family's  rather.  He 
spoke  to  me  of  his  daughter  without  emotion,  and 
said  that  her  voice  was  undoubtedly  derived  from 
three  generations  back,  when  an  ancestor — a 
baronet — had  married  with  an  opera-singer. 

"  But  we  were  talking  of  the  necklaces  and  of  the 
ring  which  Lucien  had  taken.  .  .  .  He  told  his 
secret  to  nobody,  but  kept  them  ever  in  his  trousers' 
pocket.  Only,  when  he  could  escape  away  from 
his  comrades  to  some  comer  of  the  shore,  he  would 
draw  the  gems  forth  and  feast  his  eyes  on  them. 
I  believe  it  weighed  on  him  very  little  that  he  had 
committed  a  crime  or  a  sin.  Longshore  folk  have 
great  ease  of  conscience  respecting  all  property 
cast  up  to  them  by  the  sea.  They  regard  all  such 
as  their  rightful  harvest :  the  feeling  is  in  their  blood, 
and  I  have  many  times  argued  in  vain  against  it. 

167 


NEWS     FROM     THE    DUCHY 

Once  while  I  argued,  here  in  lie  Lezan,  an  old  man 
asked  me, '  But,  father,  if  it  were  not  for  such  chances, 
why  should  any  man  choose  to  dwell  by  the  sea  ?  ' 
If,  monsieur,  you  Jived  among  them  and  knew  their 
hardships,  you  would  see  some  rude  sense  in  that 
question. 

"  To  Lucien,  feasting  his  eyes  by  stealth  on  the 
diamonds  and  counting  the  days  to  his  relief,  the 
stones  meant  that  Jeanne  and  happiness  were  now 
close  within  his  grasp.  There  would  be  difficulty, 
to  be  sure,  in  disposing  of  them  ;  but  with  Jeanne's 
advice — she  had  a  practical  mind — and  perhaps 
with  Jeanne's  help,  the  way  would  not  be  hard  to 
find.  He  was  inclined  to  plume  himself  on  the  ease 
with  which,  so  far,  it  had  been  managed.  His 
leaving  the  rings,  and  the  gems  sewn  within  the 
camisole — though  to  be  sure  these  were  not  discovered 
for  many  hours — had  been  a  masterstroke.  He  and 
his  comrades  had  been  complimented  together  upon 
their  honesty. 

"  The  relief  came  duly  ;  and  in  this  frame  of  mind — 
a  little  sly,  but  more  than  three  parts  triumphant — 
he  returned  to  lie  Lezan,  and  was  made  welcome  as 
something  of  a  hero.  (To  do  him  credit,  he  had 
worked  hard  in  recovering  the  bodies  from  the  wreck.) 
At  all  times  it  is  good  to  arrive  home  after  a  spell  on 
the  lighthouse.  The  smell  of  nets  drying  and  of 
flowers  in  the  gardens,  the  faces  on  the  quay,  and 
the  handshakes,  and  the  first  church-going — they  all 
count.     But  to  Lucien  these  things  were  for  once  as 

16S 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

little  compared  with  the  secret  he  carried.  His- 
marriage  now  was  assured,  and  that  first  evening — 
the  Eve  of  Noel — he  walked  with  Jeanne  up  the  road 
to  the  cottage,  and,  facing  it,  told  her  his  secret. 
They  could  be  married  now.  He  promised  it,  and 
indicated  the  house  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  almost 
proprietary. 

"  But  Jeanne  looked  at  him  as  one  scared,  and 
said  :    '  Shall  I  marry  a  thief  ?  ' 

"  Then,  very  quietly,  she  asked  for  a  look  at  the 
jewels,  and  he  handed  them  to  her.  She  had  never 
set  eyes  on  diamonds  before,  but  all  women  have  an 
instinct  for  jewels,  and  these  made  her  gasp.  '  Yes,' 
she  owned,  '  I  could  not  have  believed  that  the  world 
contained  such  beautiful  things.  I  am  sorry  thou 
hast  done  this  wickedness,  but  I  understand  how 
they  tempted  thee.' 

"  '  What  is  this  you  are  chanting  ?  '  demanded 
Lucien.  '  The  stones  were  nothing  to  me.  I  thought 
only  that  by  selling  them  we  two  could  set  up  house 
as  man  and  wife.' 

"  '  My  dear  one,'  said  Jeanne,  '  what  happiness 

could  we  have  known  with  this  between  us  ?  '     What 

with  the  diamonds  in  her  hand  and  the  little  cottage 

there  facing  her,  so  long  desired,  she  was  forced  to- 

shut  her  eyes  for  a  moment ;    but  when  she  opened 

them  again  her  voice  was  quite  firm.     '  We  must 

restore  them  where  they  belong.     It  may  be  that 

Pere  Thomas  can  help  us ;  but  I  must  think  of  a  way. 

Give  them  to  me,  and  let  me  keep  them  while  I  think 

of  a  way.' 

169 


NEWS     FROM    THE     DUCHY 

"  '  You  do  not  love  me  as  I  love  you,'  said  Lucien 
in  his  anger  and  disappointment ;  but  he  knew,  all 
the  same,  that  he  spoke  an  untruth. 

'  Jeanne  took  the  diamonds  home  with  her,  to 
her  bedroom,  and  sat  for  some  time  on  the  edge  of 
her  bed,  thinking  out  a  way.  In  the  midst  of  her 
thinking  she  stood  up,  walked  over  to  the  glass, 
and  clasped  the  finest  of  the  necklaces  about  her 
throat.  ...  I  suppose  no  woman  of  this  country 
ever  wore  the  like  of  it — no,  not  in  the  days  when 
there  were  kings  and  queens  of  Leon.  .  . 
Jeanne  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  gazed  at  herself 
with  eyes  like  those  of  a  patient  in  a  fever.  .  .  . 
Then  of  a  sudden  she  felt  the  stones  burning  her  as 
though  they  had  been  red-hot  coals.  She  plucked 
them  off,  and  cast  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"  You  will  remember  that  this  was  the  Eve  of 
Noel,  when  the  children  of  the  parish  help  me  to 
deck  the  creche  for  the  infant  Christ.  We  take 
down  the  images — see,  there  is  St.  Joseph,  and  there 
yonder  Our  Lady,  in  the  side  chapel ;  the  two  oxen 
and  a  sheep  are  put  away  in  the  vestry,  in  a 
cupboard  full  of  camphor.  We  have  the  Three  Kings 
too.  ...  In  short,  we  put  our  hearts  into  the 
dressing-up.  By  nightfall  all  is  completed,  and  I 
turn  the  children  out,  reserving  some  few  last  touches 
which  I  invent  to  surprise  them  when  they  come  again 
■on  Christmas  morning.  Afterwards  I  celebrate  the 
Mass  for  the  Vigil,  and  then  always  I  follow  what  has 

1 70 


THE    THREE    NECKLACES 

been  a  custom  in  this  parish,  I  believe,  ever  since 
the  church  was  built.  I  blow  out  all  the  candles 
but  two,  and  remain  here,  seated,  until  the  day 
breaks,  and  the  folk  assemble  to  celebrate  the  first 
Mass  of  Noel.  Eh  ?  It  is  discipline,  but  I  bring 
rugs,  and  I  will  not  say  that  all  the  time  my  eyes  are 
wide  open. 

"  Certainly  I  closed  them  on  this  night  of  which 
I  am  telling.  For  I  woke  up  with  a  start,  and 
almost,  you  might  say,  in  trepidation,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  that  someone  was  moving  in  the  church. 
My  first  thought  was  that  some  mischievous  child 
had  crept  in,  and  was  playing  pranks  with  my 
creche,  and  to  that  first  I  made  my  way.  Beyond 
the  window  above  it  rode  the  flying  moon,  and  in 
the  rays  of  it  what  did  I  see  ? 

"  The  figures  stood  as  I  had  left  them.  But  above 
the  manger,  over  the  shoulders  of  the  Virgin,  blazed 
a  rope  of  light — of  diamonds  such  as  I  have  never 
seen  nor  shall  see  again — all  flashing  green  and  blue 
and  fieriest  scarlet  and  piercing  white.  Of  the 
Three  Kings,  also,  each  bore  a  gift,  two  of  them  a 
necklace  apiece,  and  the  third  a  ring.  I  stood 
before  the  miracle,  and  my  tongue  clave  to  the  roof 
of  my  mouth,  and  then  a  figure  crept  out  of  the 
shadows  and  knelt  in  the  pool  of  moonlight  at  my 
feet.  It  was  Jeanne.  She  caught  at  the  skirt  of 
my  soutane,  and  broke  into  sobbing. 

My  father,  let  the  Blessed  One  wear  them  ever, 
or  else  help  me  to  give  them  back  I  ' 

171 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  You  will  now  guess,  monsieur,  on  what  business 
I  have  been  visiting  England.  It  is  a  great  country. 
The  old  clergyman  sat  among  his  azaleas  and  rhodo- 
dendrons and  listened  to  all  my  story.  Then  he 
took  the  box  that  held  his  daughter's  jewels,  and, 
emptying  it  upon  the  table,  chose  out  one  necklace 
and  set  it  aside.  '  This  one,'  said  he,  '  shall  be 
sold,  my  friend,  and  with  the  money  you  shall, 
after  giving  this  girl  a  marriage  portion,  re-adorn 
your  church  on  lie  Lezan  to  the  greater  glory  of 
God  !  '  " 

On  our  way  back  to  his  lodging  the  little  Cure 
halted  me  before  the  cottage.  Gay  curtains  hung 
in  the  windows,  and  the  verandah  had  been  freshly 
painted. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  month  Lucien  gets  his  relief, 
and  then  they  are  to  be  married,"  said  the  little 
Cure. 


172 


The   Wren 

A   LEGEND 


Early  on  St.  Stephen's  Day — which  is  the  day  after 
Christmas — young  John  Cara,  son  of  old  John  Cara, 
the  smith  of  Porthennis,  took  down  his  gun  and  went 
forth  to  kill  small  birds.  He  was  not  a  sportsman  ; 
it  hurt  him  to  kill  any  living  creature.  But  all  the 
young  men  in  the  parish  went  slaughtering  birds  on 
St.  Stephen's  Day  ;  and  the  Parson  allowed  there 
was  warrant  for  it,  because,  when  St.  Stephen  had 
almost  escaped  from  prison,  a  small  bird  (by  tradition 
a  wren)  had  chirped,  and  awakened  his  gaolers. 

Strange  to  say,  John  Cara's  dislike  of  gunning 
went  with  a  singular  aptitude  for  it.  He  had  a  quick 
sense  with  birds  ;  could  guess  their  next  movements 
just  as  though  he  read  their  minds  ;  and  rarely 
missed  his  aim  if  he  took  it  without  giving  himself 
time  to  think. 

Now  the  rest  of  youths,  that  day,  chose  the  valley 
bottoms  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  trooped  about  in 
parties,  with  much  whacking  of  bushes.  But  John 
went  up  to  Balmain — which  is  a  high  stony  moor 

i73 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

overlooking  the  sea — because  he  preferred  to  be 
alone,  and  also  because,  having  studied  their  ways, 
he  knew  this  to  be  the  favourite  winter  haunt 
of  the  small  birds,  especially  of  the  wrens  and  the 
titlarks. 

His  mother  had  set  her  heart  on  making  a  large 
wranny-pie  (that  is,  wren-pie,  but  actually  it  includes 
all  manner  of  birdlings).  It  was  to  be  the  largest  in 
the  parish.  She  was  vain  of  young  John's  prowess, 
and  would  quote  it  when  old  John  grumbled  that  the 
lad  was  slow  as  a  smith.  "  And  yet,"  said  old  John 
"  backward  isn't  the  word  so  much  as  foolish.  Up 
to  a  point  he  understands  iron  'most  so  well  as 
I  understand  it  myself.  Then  some  notion  takes 
him,  and  my  back  's  no  sooner  turned  than  he  spoils 
his  job.  Always  trying  to  make  iron  do  what  iron 
won't  do — that's  how  you  may  put  it."  The  wife, 
who  was  a  silly  woman,  and  (like  many  another  such) 
looked  down  on  her  husband's  trade,  maintained 
that  her  boy  ought  to  have  been  born  a  squire,  with 
game  of  his  own. 

Young  John  went  up  to  Balmain  ;  and  there, 
sure  enough,  he  found  wrens  and  titlarks  flitting 
about  everywhere,  cheeping  amid  the  furze  bushes 
on  the  low  stone  hedges  and  the  granite  boulders, 
where  the  winter  rains  had  hollowed  out  little  basins 
for  themselves,  little  by  little,  working  patiently  for 
hundreds  of  years.  The  weather  was  cold,  but  still 
and  sunny.  As  he  climbed,  the  sea  at  first  made 
a  blue  strip  beyond  the  cliff's  edge  on  his  right,  then 

174 


THE    WREN 

spread  into  a  wide  blue  floor,  three  hundred  feet 
below  him,  and  all  the  width  of  it  twinkling.  Ahead 
and  on  his  left  all  the  moorland  twinkled  too,  with 
the  comings  and  goings  of  the  birds.  The  wrens 
mostly  went  about  their  business — whatever  that 
might  be — in  a  sharp,  practical  way,  keeping  silence  ; 
but  the  frail  note  of  the  titlarks  sounded  here,  there, 
everywhere. 

Young  John  might  have  shot  scores  of  them. 
But,  as  he  headed  for  the  old  mine-house  of  Balmain 
and  the  cromlech,  or  Main-Stone,  which  stands 
close  beside  it— and  these  are  the  only  landmarks 
— he  did  not  even  trouble  to  charge  his  gun.  For 
the  miracle  was  happening  already. 

It  began — as  perhaps  most  miracles  do — very 
slowly  and  gently,  without  his  perceiving  it,  quite 
trivially  and  even  absurdly.  It  started  within  him, 
upon  a  thought  that  wren-pie  was  a  foolish  dish  after 
all !  His  mother,  who  prided  herself  upon  making 
it,  did  but  pretend  to  enjoy  it  after  it  was  cooked. 
His  father  did  not  even  pretend  :  the  mass  of  little 
bones  in  it  cheated  his  appetite  and  spoiled  his 
temper.  From  this  young  John  went  on  to  consider, 
"  Was  it  worth  while  to  go  on  killing  wrens  and 
shamming  an  appetite  for  them,  only  because  a  wren 
had  once  informed  against  St.  Stephen  ?  How  were 
these  wrens  guilty  ?  And,  anyway,  how  were  the 
titlarks  guilty  ?  "  Young  John  reasoned  it  out  in 
this  simple  fashion.  He  came  to  the  Main  Stone,  and 
seating  himself  on  the  turf,  leaned  his  back  against 


*75 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

•one  of  the  blocks  which  support  the  huge  monolith. 
He  sat  there  for  a  long  while,  puckering  his  brows, 
his  gun  idle  beside  him.  At  last  he  said  to  himself, 
but  firmly  and  aloud  : 

"  Parson  and  the  rest  say  'tis  true.  But  I  can't 
believe  it,  and  something  inside  says  'tis  wrong. 
.  .  .  There  !  I  won't  shoot  another  bird — and 
that  settles  it  !  " 

"  Halleluia  !  "  said  a  tiny  voice  somewhere  above 
him. 

The  voice,  though  tiny,  was  shrill  and  positive. 
Young  John  recognised,  and  yet  did  not  recognise  it. 
He  stared  up  at  the  wall  of  the  old  mine-house  from 
which  it  had  seemed  to  speak,  but  he  could  see  no 
one.  Next  he  thought  that  the  word  must  have 
come  from  his  own  heart,  answering  a  sudden  gush 
of  warmth  and  happiness  that  set  his  whole  body 
glowing.  It  was  as  if  winter  had  changed  to  summer, 
within  him  and  without,  and  all  in  a  moment.  He 
blinked  in  the  stronger  sunshine,  and  felt  it  warm 
upon  his  eyelids. 

"  Halleluia  !  "  said  the  voice  again.  It  certainly 
came  from  the  wall.  He  looked  again,  and,  scanning 
it  in  this  strange,  new  light,  was  aware  of  a  wren  in 
one  of  the  crevices. 

"  Will  he  ?  will  he  ?  "  piped  another  voice,  pretty 
close  behind  his  ear.  Young  John,  now  he  had  learnt 
that  wrens  can  talk,  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising 
this  other  voice  :  it  was  the  half-hearted  note  of  the 
titlark.    He  turned  over  on  his  side  and  peered  into 

176 


THE    WREN 

the  shadow  of  the  Main-Stone  ;  but  in  vain,  for  the 
titlark  is  a  hesitating,  unhappy  little  soul  that  never 
quite  dares  to  make  up  its  mind.  It  used  to  be  the 
friend  of  a  race  that  inhabited  Cornwall  ages  ago. 
It  builds  in  their  cromlechs,  and  its  song  remembers 
them.  It  is  the  bird,  too,  in  whose  nest  the  cuckoo 
lays  ;  so  it  knows  all  about  losing  one's  children  and 
being  dispossessed. 

"  We  will  give  him  a  gift,"  chirrupped  the  wren, 
"  and  send  him  about  his  business.  He  is  the  first 
man  that  has  the.  sense  to  leave  us  to  ours." 

"But  will  he  ? — will  he  ?  "  the  titlark  piped  back 
ghostlily.  "  One  can  never  be  sure.  I  have  known 
men  long,  long  before  ever  you  came  here.  I  knew 
King  Arthur.  This  rock  was  his  table,  and  he  dined 
here  with  seven  other  kings  on  the  night  after  they 
had  beaten  the  Danes  at  Vellandruchar.  I  hid  under 
the  stone  and  listened  to  them  passing  the  cups,  and 
between  their  talk  you  could  hear  the  stream  running 
down  the  valley — it  turned  the  two  mill-wheels, 
Vellandruchar  and  Vellandreath,  with  blood  that 
night.  Even  at  day-break  it  ran  high  over  the  legs 
of  the  choughs  walking  on  the  beach  below — that  is 
why  the  choughs  go  red-legged  to  this  day.  .  .  . 
They  are  few  now,  but  then  they  were  many  :  and 
next  spring  they  came  and  built  in  the  rigging  of  the 
Danes'  ships,  left  ashore — for  not  a  Dane  had  escaped. 
But  King  Arthur  had  gone  his  way.  Ah,  he  was 
a  man  !  " 

"  Nevertheless,"  struck  in  the  wren,  "  this  is  a  good 


177 
12 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

fellow,  too  ;  and  a  smith,  whose  trade  is  as  old  as 
your  King  Arthur's.     We  will  prosper  him  in  it." 

"  What  will  you  give  him  ?  "  asked  the  titlark. 

"He  is  lying  at  this  moment  on  the  trefoil  that 
commands  all  metals.  Let  him  look  to  his  gun  when 
he  awakes." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  titlark,  "  I  told  you  that  secret. 
I  was  with  Teague  the  Smith  when  he  discovered  it. 
.  .  .  But  he  discovered  it  too  late  ;  and,  besides, 
he  was  a  dreamer,  and  used  it  only  to  make  crosses 
and  charms  and  womanish  ornaments." 

"  It  's  no  use  to  us,  anyhow,"  said  the  practical 
wren.    "  So  let  us  give  it  away.    I  hate  waste." 

"  I  doubt,"  said  the  titlark,  "  it  will  be  much 
profit  to  him,  wonderful  though  it  is." 

"  Well,"  said  the  wren,  "  a  present 's  a  present. 
Folks  with  a  living  to  get  must  give  what  they  can 
afford." 

*F  t*  *J*  *F 

It  is  not  wise,  as  a  rule,  to  sleep  on  the  bare  ground 
in  December.  But  Young  John  awoke  warm  and 
jolly  as  a  sandboy.  He  picked  up  his  gun.  It  was 
bent  and  curiously  twisted  in  the  barrel.  "  Hullo  !  " 
said  he,  and  peered  closely  into  the  short  turf  where 
it  had  lain.     .     .     . 

When  he  reached  home  his  mother  cried  out 
joyfully,  seeing  his  game-bag  and  how  it  bulged.  She 
cried  out  to  a  different  tune  when  he  showed^her  what 
it  contained — clods  and  clumps  of  turf,  matted  over 
with  a  tiny  close-growing  plant  that  might  have  been 

178 


THE    WREN 

any  common  moss  for  aught  she  knew  (or  recked)  of 
the  difference. 

"  But  where  are  all  the  birds  you  promised  me  ?  " 

He  held  out  his  gun — he  had  promised  no  birds, 
but  that  mattered  nothing.  His  father  took  it  to  the 
lamp  and  glanced  at  it  ;  put  on  his  horn  spectacles 
slowly,  and  peered  at  it.  He  was  silent  for  a  long 
while.  Young  John  had  turned  inattentively  from 
his  mother's  reproaches,  and  stood  watching  him. 

The  old  man  swung  about  at  length.  "  When  did 
ye  contrive  this  ?  "  he  asked,  rubbing  the  twist  of  the 
gunbarrel  with  his  thumb.  "  And  the  forge  not 
heated  all  this  day  !  " 

"  We  '11  heat  it  to-night  after  supper,"  said  Young 
John. 

■JC  3|C  9|C  3|G 

In  the  Church  of  Porthennis,  up  to  twenty-five 
years  ago,  there  stood  a  screen  of  ironwork — a  marvel 
of  arabesques  and  intricate  traceries,  with  baskets  of 
flowers,  sea-monsters,  Cherubim,  tying  the  fihgree 
work  and  looping  it  together  in  knots  and  centres. 
One  panel  had  for  subject  a  spider  midmost  in  a  web, 
to  visit  which  smiths  came  hundreds  of  miles,  from 
all  over  the  country,  and  wondered.  For  it  was 
impossible  to  guess  how  iron  had  ever  been  beaten 
to  such  thinness  or  drawn  so  ductile.  But  unhappily 
— and  priceless  as  was  the  secret  Young  John  Cara 
had  chosen  to  let  die  with  him — the  art  of  it  was 
frail,  frail  as  the  titlark's  song.  His  masterpiece, 
indeed,  had  in  it  the  corruption  of  Celtic  art.     It 

179 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

could  not  endure  its  native  weather,  and  rusted 
away  almost  to  nothingness.  When  the  late  Sir 
Gilbert  Aubyn,  the  famous  neo-Gothic  architect, 
was  called  in  (1885)  to  restore  Porthennis  Church — 
or,  as  we  say  in  Cornwall,  to  "  restroy  "  it — he  swept 
the  remnants  away.  But  the  legend  survives,  ferro 
-perennius. 


180 


Not  Here,   0  Apollo! 

A  Christmas   Story   heard   at  Midsummer 


We  sat  and  talked  in  the  Vicarage  garden  over- 
looking Mount's  Bay.  The  long  summer  day 
lingered  out  its  departure,  although  the  full  moon 
was  up  and  already  touching  with  a  faint  radiance 
the  towers  on  St.  Michael's  Mount — '  the  guarded 
Mount  ' — that  rested  as  though  at  anchor  in  the 
silver-grey  offing.  The  land-breeze  had  died  down 
with  sunset  ;  the  Atlantic  lay  smooth  as  a  lake  below 
us,  and  melted,  league  upon  league,  without  horizon 
into  the  grey  of  night.  Between  the  Vicar's  fuchsia 
bushes  we  looked  down  on  it,  we  three — the  Vicar, 
the  Senior  Tutor  and  I. 

I  think  the  twilit  hour  exactly  accorded  with  our 
mood,  and  it  did  not  need  the  scent  of  the  Vicar's 
ten-week  stocks,  wafted  across  the  garden,  to  touch 
a  nerve  of  memory.  For  it  was  twenty  years  since 
we  had  last  sat  in  this  place  and  talked,  and  the 
summer  night  seemed  to  be  laden  with  tranquil 
thoughts,   with  friendship  and  old  regard.     .     .     . 

1S1 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Twenty  years  ago  I  had  been  an  undergraduate,  and 
had  made  one  of  a  reading-party  under  the  Senior 
Tutor,  who  annually  in  the  Long  Vacation  brought 
down  two  or  three  fourth-year  men  to  bathe  and 
boat  and  read  Plato  with  him,  for  no  pay  but  their 
friendship  :  and,  generation  after  generation,  we 
young  men  had  been  made  welcome  in  this  garden 
by  the  Vicar,  who  happened  to  be  an  old  member 
of  our  College  and  (as  in  time  I  came  to  see) 
delighted  to  renew  his  youth  in  ours.  There  had 
been  daughters,  too,  in  the  old  days.  .  .  .  But 
they  had  married,  and  the  Vicarage  nest  was  empty 
long  since. 

The  Senior  Tutor,  too,  had  given  up  his  Fellowship, 
and  retired.  But  every  summer  found  him  back  at 
his  old  haunts  ;  and  still  every  summer  brought  a 
reading-party  to  the  Cove,  in  conduct  now  of  a 
brisk  Junior  Fellow,  who  had  read  with  me  in  our 
time  and  achieved  a  '  first.'  In  short,  things  at 
the  Cove  were  pretty  much  the  same  after  twenty 
years,  barring  that  a  small  colony  of  painters  had 
descended  upon  it  and  made  it  their  home.  With 
them  the  undergraduates  had  naturally  and  quickly 
made  friends,  and  the  result  was  a  cricket  match — 
a  grand  Two-days'  Cricket  Match.  They  were  all 
extremely  serious  about  it,  and  the  Oxford  party — 
at  their  wits'  end,  no  doubt,  to  make  up  a  team 
against  the  Artists  —  had  bethought  themselves 
of  me,  who  dwelt  at  the  other  end  of  the  Duchy. 
They  had  written — they  had  even  sent  a  two-page 

182 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

telegram — to  me,  who  had  not  handled  a  bat  for 
more  years  than  I  cared  to  count.  It  is  delicious  to 
be  flattered  by  youth,  especially  for  gifts  you 
never  possessed  or  possess  no  longer.  I  yielded 
and  came.  The  season  was  Midsummer,  or  a  little 
after  ;   the  weather  golden  and  glorious. 

We  had  drawn  stumps  after  the  first  day's  play, 
and  the  evening  was  to  be  wound  up  with  a  sing- 
song in  the  great  tent  erected — a  marvel  to  the 
'  Covers,'  or  native  fishermen — on  the  cricket-field. 
But  I  no  longer  take  kindly  to  such  entertainments  ; 
and  so,  after  a  bathe  and  a  quiet  dinner  at  the  inn, 
it  came  into  my  mind  to  take  a  stroll  up  the  hill 
and  along  the  cliffs,  and  pay  an  evening  call  on  the 
old  Vicar,  wondering  if  he  would  remember  me. 

I  found  him  in  his  garden.  The  Senior  Tutor  was 
there  too — '  the  grave  man,  nicknamed  Adam  ' — 
and  the  Vicar's  wife,  seated  in  a  bee-hive  straw  chair, 
knitting.  So  we  four  talked  happily  for  a  while, 
until  she  left  us  on  pretence  that  the  dew  was  falling  ; 
and  with  that,  as  I  have  said,  a  wonderful  silence 
possessed  the  garden,  fragrant  with  memories  and 
the  night-scent  of  flowers     .     .     . 

Then  I  let  fall  the  word  that  led  to  the  Vicar's 
story.  In  old  rambles,  after  long  mornings  spent 
with  Plato,  my  eyes  (by  mirage,  no  doubt)  had 
always  found  something  Greek  in  the  curves  and 
colour  of  this  coast  ;  or  rather,  had  felt  the  want  of 
it.  What  that  something  was  I  could  hardly  have 
defined  :    but  the  feeling  was  always  with  me.     It 

183 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

was  as  if  at  each  bend  of  the  shore  I  expected  to 
find  a  temple  with  pillars,  or  a  column  crowning  the 
next  promontory  ;  or,  where  the  coast-track  wound 
down  to  the  little  haven,  to  happen  on  a  votive 
tablet  erected  to  Poseidon  or  to  '  Helen's  brothers, 
lucent  stars  '  ;  nay,  to  meet  with  Odysseus'  fisher- 
man carrying  an  oar  on  his  shoulder,  or  even,  in  an 
amphitheatre  of  the  cliffs,  to  surprise  Apollo  himself 
and  the  Nine  seated  on  a  green  plat  whence  a  water- 
fall gushed  down  the  coombe  to  the  sandy  beach 

.  .  This  evening  on  my  way  along  the  cliffs — 
perhaps  because  I  had  spent  a  day  bathing  in  sun- 
shine in  the  company  of  white-flannelled  youths — 
the  old  sensation  had  returned  to  haunt  me.  I 
spoke  of  it. 

"  '  Not  here,  O  Apollo '  "  murmured  the  Senior 

Tutor. 

"  You  quote  against  your  own  scepticism,"  said  I. 

"  The  coast  is  right  enough  ;  it  is 

"  'Where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff  to  the  sea.' 

It  was  made  to  invite  the  authentic  gods — only  the 
gods  never  found  it  out." 

"  Did  they  not  ?  "  asked  the  Vicar  quietly.  The 
question  took  us  a  little  aback,  and  after  a  pause 
his  next  words  administered  another  small  shock. 
"  One  never  knows,"  he  said,  "  when,  or  how  near, 
the  gods  have  passed.  One  may  be  listening  to  us 
in  this  garden,  to-night.     ...     As  for  the  Greeks 


184 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  were  talking  of  the  Greeks,"  the 
Senior  Tutor  (a  convinced  agnostic)  put  in  hastily, 
"If  we  leave  out  Pytheas,  no  Greeks  ever  visited 
Cornwall.  They  are  as  mythical  hereabouts  as  " — 
he  hesitated,  seeking  a  comparison — "  as  the  Cornish 
wreckers  ;  and  they  never  existed  outside  of  pious 
story-books." 

Said  the  Vicar,  rising  from  his  garden-chair,  "  I 
accept  the  omen.  Wait  a  moment,  you  two."  He 
left  us  and  went  across  the  dim  lawn  to  the  house,, 
whence  by-and-by  he  returned  bearing  a  book  under 
his  arm,  and  in  his  hand  a  candle,  which  he  set 
down  unlit  upon  the  wicker  table  among  the  coffee- 
cups. 

'  I  am  going,"  he  said,  "  to  tell  you  something 
which,  a  few  years  ago,  I  should  have  scrupled  to 
tell.  With  all  deference  to  your  opinions,  my  dear 
Dick,  I  doubt  if  they  quite  allow  you  to  understand 
the  clergy's  horror  of  chancing  a  heresy  ;  indeed,  I 
doubt  if  either  of  you  quite  guess  what  a  bridle  a 
man  comes  to  wear  who  preaches  a  hundred  sermons 
or  so  every  year  to  a  rural  parish,  knowing  that 
nine-tenths  of  his  discourse  will  assuredly  be  lost, 
while  at  any  point  in  the  whole  of  it  he  may  be 
fatally  misunderstood  .  .  .  Yet  as  a  man  nears 
his  end  he  feels  an  increasing  desire  to  be  honest, 
neither  professing  more  than  he  knows,  nor  hiding 
any  small  article  of  knowledge  as  inexpedient  to- 
the  Faith.  The  Faith,  he  begins  to  see,  can  take 
care   of  itself :    for  him,    it   is   important   to   await 

185 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

his  marching-orders  with  a  clean  breast.  Eh, 
Dick  ?  " 

The  Senior  Tutor  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  nodded  slowly. 

"  But  what  is  your  book  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  My  Parish  Register.  Its  entries  cover  the  years 
1660  and  1827.  Luckily  I  had  borrowed  it  from 
the  vestry  box,  and  it  was  safe  on  my  shelf  in  the 
Vicarage  on  the  Christmas  Eve  of  1870,  the  night 
when  the  church  took  fire.  That  was  in  my  second 
year  as  incumbent,  and  before  ever  you  knew  these 
parts." 

"  By  six  months,"  said  the  Senior  Tutor.  "  I 
first  visited  the  Cove  in  July,  1871,  and  you  were 
then  beginning  to  clear  the  ruins.  All  the  village 
talk  still  ran  on  the  fire,  with  speculations  on  the 
cause  of  it." 

"  The  cause,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  will  never  be 
known.  I  may  say  that  pretty  confidently,  having 
spent  more  time  in  guessing  than  will  ever  be  spent 
by  another  man  .  .  .  But  since  you  never  saw 
the  old  church  as  it  stood,  you  never  saw  the  Heathen 
Lovers  in  the  south  aisle." 

"  Who  were  they  ?  " 

"  They  were  a  group  of  statuary,  and  a  very  strange 
one  ;  executed,  as  I  first  believed,  in  some  kind  of 
wax — but,  pushing  my  researches  (for  the  thing 
interested  me)  I  found  the  material  to  be  a  white 
soapstone  that  crops  out  here  and  there  in  the 
■crevices  of  our  serpentine.     Indeed,   I   know  to  a 

186 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

foot  the  spot  from  which  the  sculptor  took  it,  close 
on  two  hundred  years  ago." 

"  It  was  of  no  great  age,  then  ? 

"  No  :  and  yet  it  bore  all  the  marks  of  an  immense 
age.  For,  to  begin  with,  it  had  stood  five-and- 
twenty  years  in  this  very  garden,  exposed  to  all 
weathers,  and  the  steatite  (as  they  call  it)  is  of  all 
substances  the  most  friable — is,  in  fact,  the  stuff 
used  by  tailors  under  the  name  of  French  chalk. 
Again,  when,  in  1719,  my  predecessor,  old  Vicar 
Hichens,  removed  it  to  the  church  and  set  it  in  the 
south  aisle — or,  at  any  rate,  when  he  died  and  ceased 
to  protect  it — the  young  men  of  the  parish  took  to 
using  it  for  a  hatstand,  and  also  to  carving  their 
own  and  their  sweethearts'  names  upon  it  during 
sermon-time.  The  figures  of  the  sculpture  were 
two  ;  a  youth  and  a  maid,  recumbent,  and  naked 
but  for  a  web  or  drapery  flung  across  their 
middles  ;  and  they  lay  on  a  roughly  carved  rock, 
over  which  the  girl's  locks  as  well  as  the  drapery  were 
made  to  hang  limp,  as  though  dripping  with  water  .  .  . 
One  thing  more  I  must  tell  you,  risking  derision  ; 
that  to  my  ignorance  the  sculpture  proclaimed 
its  age  less  by  these  signs  of  weather  and  rough 
usage  than  by  the  simplicity  of  its  design,  its  propor- 
tions, the  chastity  (there  's  no  other  word)  of  the  two 
figures.  They  were  classical,  my  dear  Dick — what 
was  left  of  them  ;  Greek,  and  of  the  best  period." 

The  Senior  Tutor  lit  a  fresh  pipe,  and  by  the  flare 
of  the  match  I  saw  his  eyes  twinkling. 

187 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

"  Praxiteles,"  he  jerked  out,  between  the  puffs, 
"  and  in  the  age  of  Kneller  !  But  proceed,  my 
friend." 

"  And  do  you  wait,  my  scoffer  !  '  The  Vicar 
borrowed  the  box  of  matches,  lit  the  candle — which 
held  a  steady  flame  in  the  still  evening  air — opened 
the  book,  and  laid  it  on  his  knee  while  he  adjusted 
his  spectacles.  "  The  story  is  here,  entered  on  a 
separate  leaf  of  the  Register  and  signed  by  Vicar 
Hichen's  own  hand.  With  your  leave — for  it  is 
brief — I  am  going  to  read  it  through  to  you.  The 
entry  is  headed  : — 

'  Concerning  a  group  of  Statuary  now  in  the  S.  aisle 
of  Lezardew  Pish  Church  :  set  there  by  me  in 
witness  of  God's  Providence  in  operation,  as  of 
the  corruption  of  man's  heart,  and  for  a  warning 
to  sinners  to  amend  their  ways. 

'  In  the  year  1694,  being  the  first  of  my  vicariate, 
there  lived  in  this  Parish  as  hind  to  the  farmer  of 
Vellancoose  a  young  man  exceeding  comely  and 
tall  of  stature,  of  whom  (when  I  came  to  ask)  the 
people  could  tell  me  only  that  his  name  was  Luke, 
and  that  as  a  child  he  had  been  cast  ashore  from 
a  foreign  ship  ;  they  said,  a  Portugal  ship.  [But  the 
Portugals  have  swart  complexions  and  are  less 
than  ordinary  tall,  whereas  this  youth  was  light- 
coloured  and  only  brown  by  sunburn.]  Nor 
could  he  tell  me  anything  when  I  questioned  him 

18S 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

concerning  his  haveage  ;*  which  I  did  upon  report 
that  he  was  courting  my  housemaiden  Grace 
Pascoe,  an  honest  good  girl,  whom  I  was  loth  to 
see  waste  herself  upon  an  unworthy  husband. 
Upon  inquiry  I  could  not  discover  this  Luke  to 
be  any  way  unworthy,  saving  that  he  was  a  name- 
less man  and  a  foreigner  and  a  backward  church- 
goer. He  told  me  with  much  simplicity  that  he 
could  not  remember  to  have  had  any  parents  ; 
that  Farmer  Lowry  had  brought  him  up  from  the 
time  he  was  shipwrecked  and  ever  treated  him 
kindly  ;  and  that,  as  for  church-going,  he  had 
thought  little  about  it,  but  would  amend  in  this 
matter  if  it  would  give  me  pleasure.  Which  I 
thought  a  strange  answer.  When  I  went  on  to 
hint  at  his  inclination  for  Grace  Pascoe,  he 
confused  me  by  asking,  with  a  look  very  straight 
and  good-natured,  if  the  girl  had  ever  spoken  to 
me  on  the  matter  ;  to  which  I  was  forced  to 
answer  that  she  had  not.  So  he  smiled,  and  I 
could  not  further  press  him. 

'  Yet  in  my  mind  they  would  have  made  a  good 
match  ;  for  the  girl  too  was  passing  well-featured, 
and  this  Luke  had  notable  gifts.  He  could  read 
and  write.  The  farmer  spoke  well  of  him,  saying, 
"  He  has  rewarded  me  many  times  over.  Since 
his  coming,  thanks  to  the  Lord,  my  farm  prospers  : 
and  in  particular  he  has  a  wonderful  way  with  the 
beasts.     Cattle   or   sheep,    fowls,   dogs,    the   wild 

*  Lineage,  descent. 
189 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

things  even,  come  to  him  almost  without  a  call." 
He  had  also  (the  farmer  told  me)  a  wonderful 
knack  of  taking  clay  or  mud  and  moulding  it 
with  his  hands  to  the  likeness  of  living  creatures, 
of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  In  the  kitchen  by  the  great 
fire  he  would  work  at  these  images  by  hours 
together,  to  the  marvel  of  everyone  :  but  when 
the  image  was  made,  after  a  little  while  he  always 
destroyed  it ;  nor  was  it  ever  begged  by  anyone 
for  a  gift,  there  being  a  belief  that,  being  fashioned 
by  more  than  a  man's  skill,  such  things  could  only 
bring  ill-luck  to  the  possessors  of  them. 

'  For  months  then  I  heard  no  more  of  Grace 
Pascoe's  lover  :  nor  (though  he  now  came  every 
Sunday  to  church)  did  I  ever  see  looks  pass 
between  the  Vicarage  pew  (where  she  sat)  and  the 
Vellancoose  pew  (where  he).  But  at  the  end  of 
the  year  she  came  to  me  and  told  me  she  had 
given  her  word  to  a  young  farmer  of  Goldsithney, 
John  Magor  by  name.  In  a  worldly  way  this  was 
a  far  better  match  for  her  than  to  take  a  nameless 
and  landless  man.  Nor  knew  I  anything  against 
John  Magor  beyond  some  stray  wildness  natural 
to  youth.  He  came  of  clean  blood.  He  was 
handsome,  almost,  as  the  other ;  tall,  broad  of 
chest,  a  prize-winner  at  wrestling-matches  ;  and 
of  an  age  when  a  good  wife  is  usually  a  man's 
salvation. 

'  I  called  their  banns,  and  in  due  time  married 
them.     On  the  wedding-day,  after  the  ceremony, 

190 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

I  returned  from  church  to  find  the  young  man 
Luke  awaiting  me  by  my  house-door  ;  who  very 
civilly  desired  me  to  walk  over  to  Vellancoose  with 
him,  which  I  did.  There,  taking  me  aside  to  an 
unused  linhay,  he  showed  me  the  sculpture,  telling 
me  (who  could  not  conceal  my  admiration)  that  he 
had  meant  it  for  John  and  Grace  Magor  (as  she 
now  was)  for  a  wedding-gift,  but  that  the  young 
woman  had  cried  out  against  it  as  immodest  and, 
besides,  unlucky.  On  the  first  count  I  could 
understand  her  rejecting  such  a  gift  ;  for  the 
folk  of  these  parts  know  nothing  of  statuary 
and  count  all  nakedness  immodest.  Indeed  I 
wondered  that  the  bridegroom  had  not  taken 
Luke's  freedom  in  ill  part,  and  I  said  so  :  to  which 
he  answered,  smiling,  that  no  man  ever  quarrelled 
with  him  or  could  quarrel.  "  And  now,  sir,"  he 
went  on,  "  my  apprenticeship  is  up,  and  I  am 
going  on  a  long  journey.  Since  you  find  my  group 
pleasing  I  would  beg  you  to  accept  it,  or — if  you 
had  liefer — to  keep  it  for  me  until  I  come  again, 
as  some  day  I  shall."  "  I  do  not  wonder,"  said  I, 
"  at  your  wish  to  leave  Lezardew  Parish  for  the 
world  where,  as  I  augur,  great  fortune  awaits  you." 
He  smiled  again  at  this  and  said  that,  touching  his 
future,  he  had  neither  any  hope  nor  any  fear  :  and 
again  he  pressed  me  to  accept  the  statuary.  For 
a  time  I  demurred,  and  in  the  end  made  it  a 
condition  that  he  altered  the  faces  somewhat, 
concealing  the  likeness  to  John  and  Grace  Magor  : 

191 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

and  to  this  he  consented.  "  Yet,"  said  he,  "  it 
will  be  the  truer  likeness  when  the  time  comes." 

'  He  was  gone  on  the  morrow  by  daybreak,  and 
late  that  afternoon  the  farmer  brought  me  the 
statuary  in  his  hay-wagon.  I  had  it  set  in  the 
garden  by  the  great  filberd-tree,  and  there  it  has 
stood  for  near  five-and-twenty  years.  (I  ought 
to  say  that  he  had  kept  his  promise  of  altering  the 
faces,  and  thereby  to  my  thinking  had  defaced 
their  beauty  :  but  beneath  this  defacement  I  still 
traced  their  first  likeness.) 

'  Now  to  speak  of  the  originals.  My  way  lying 
seldom  by  Goldsithney,  I  saw  little  of  John  and 
Grace  Magor  during  the  next  few  years,  and  nothing 
at  all  of  them  after  they  had  left  Goldsithney  (their 
fortunes  not  prospering)  and  rented  a  smaller  farm 
on  the  coast  southward,  below  Rosudgeon  :  but 
what  news  came  to  me  was  ever  of  the  same  tenour. 
Their  marriage  had  brought  neither  children  nor 
other  blessings.  There  were  frequent  quarrels,  and 
the  man  had  yielded  to  drinking  ;  the  woman,  too, 
it  was  reported.  She,  that  had  been  so  trim  a 
serving-maid,  was  become  a  slut,  with  a  foul  tongue. 
They  were  cruelly  poor  with  it  all ;  for  money  does 
not  always  stick  to  unclean  hands.  I  write  all 
this  to  my  reproach  as  well  as  to  theirs,  for  albeit 
they  dwelt  in  another  parish  it  had  been  my 
■Christian  duty  to  seek  them  out.  I  did  not,  and 
I  was  greatly  to  blame. 

'  To  pass  over  many  years  and  come  to  the  2nd 

192 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

of  December  last  (1718).  That  night,  about 
11  o'clock,  I  sat  in  my  library  reading.  It  was 
blowing  hard  without,  the  wind  W.N.W.  ;  but 
I  had  forgotten  the  gale  in  my  book,  when  a  sound, 
as  it  were  a  distant  outcry  of  many  voices,  fetched 
me  to  unbar  the  shutters  and  open  the  window  to 
listen.  The  sound,  whatever  it  was,  had  died 
away  :  I  heard  but  the  wind  roaring  and  the  surf 
on  the  beaches  along  the  Bay  :  and  I  was  closing 
the  window  again  when,  close  at  hand,  a  man's 
voice  called  to  me  to  open  the  front  door.  I 
went  out  to  the  hall,  where  a  lamp  stood,  and 
opened  to  him.  The  light  showed  me  the  young 
man  Luke,  on  whom  I  had  not  set  eyes  for  these 
four-and- twenty  years  :  nor,  amazed  and  perturbed 
as  I  was,  did  it  occur  to  me  as  marvellous  that  he 
had  not  aged  a  day.  "  There  is  a  wreck,"  said  he, 
"  in  the  Porth  below  here  ;  and  you,  sir,  are 
concerned  in  it.  Will  you  fetch  a  lantern  and 
come  with  me  ?  "  He  put  this  as  a  question,  but 
in  his  tone  was  a  command  ;  and  when  I  brought 
the  lantern  he  took  it  from  me  and  led  the  way. 
We  struck  across  the  Home  Pare  southward,  thence 
across  Gew  Down  and  the  Leazes,  and  I  knew  that 
he  was  making  for  the  track  which  leads  down  to 
the  sea  by  Prah  Sands.  At  the  entry  of  the  track 
he  took  off  his  coat  and  wrapped  the  lantern  in  it, 
though  just  there  its  light  would  have  been  most 
useful,  or  so  I  thought.  But  he  led  the  way  easily, 
and  I  followed  with  scarce  a  stumble.     "  We  shall 


i93 
13 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

not  need  it,"  he  said  ;  "  for  see,  there  they  are  !  " 
pointing  to  a  small  light  that  moved  on  the 
sands  below  us.  "  But  who  are  they  ?  "  I  asked. 
He  strode  down  ahead  of  me,  making  swiftly  for 
the  light,  and  coming  upon  them  in  the  noise  of 
the  gale  we  surprised  a  man  and  a  woman,  who 
at  first  cowered  before  us  and  then  would  have 
cast  down  their  light  and  run.  But  my  com- 
panion, unwrapping  the  lantern,  held  it  high  and 
so  that  the  light  shone  on  their  faces.  They  were 
John  Magor  and  his  wife  Grace. 

'  Then  I,  remembering  what  cry  of  shipwrecked 
souls  had  reached  to  my  library  in  the  Vicarage, 
and  well  guessing  what  work  these  wretches  had 
been  at,  lifted  my  voice  to  accuse  them.  But  the 
young  man  Luke  stepped  between  us,  and  said  he 
to  them  gently,  "  Come,  and  I  will  show  what  you 
seek."  He  went  before  us  for  maybe  two  hundred 
yards  to  the  northern  end  of  the  beach,  they 
behind  him  quaking,  and  I  shepherding  them  in 
my  righteous  wrath.  "  Behold  you,"  said  he,  and 
again  lifted  the  lantern  over  a  rock  dark  with  sea- 
weed (and  yet  the  weed  shone  in  the  light) — 
"  Behold  you,  what  you  have  wrecked." 

'  On  their  backs  along  the  flat  of  the  rock  lay 
two  naked  bodies,  of  a  youth  and  a  maid,  half- 
clasped  one  to  another.  He  handed  me  the 
lantern  for  a  better  look,  and  in  the  rays  of  it 
the  two  wretches  peered  forward  as  if  drawn  against 
their  will.     I  cannot  well  say  if  they  or  I  first 

194 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

perceived  the  miracle ;  that  these  corpses,  as 
they  lay  in  the  posture,  so  bore  the  very  likeness 
of  the  two  lovers  on  my  sculptured  slab.  But  I 
remember  that,  as  John  and  Grace  Magor  screamed 
back  and  clung  to  me,  and  as  by  the  commotion  of 
them  clutching  at  my  knees  the  lantern  fell  and 
was  extinguished,  I  heard  the  young  man  Luke 
say,  "  Yourselves,  yourselves  !  " 

'  I  called  to  him  to  pick  up  the  lantern  ;  but  he 
did  not  answer,  and  the  two  clinging  wretches 
encumbered  me.  After  a  long  while  the  clouds 
broke  and  the  moon  shone  through  them  ;  and 
where  he  had  stood  there  was  no  one.  Also  the 
slab  of  rock  was  dark,  and  the  two  drowned  corpses 
had  vanished  with  him.  I  pointed  to  it ;  but 
there  was  no  tinder-box  at  hand  to  light  the  lantern 
again,  and  in  the  bitter  weather  until  the  dawn  the 
two  clung  about  me,  confessing  and  rehearsing 
their  sins. 

'  I  have  great  hopes  that  they  are  brought  to  a 
better  way  of  life  ;  and  because  (repent  they  never 
so  much)  no  one  is  any  longer  likely  to  recognise 
in  these  penitents  the  originals  upon  whom  it  was 
moulded  these  many  years  ago,  I  am  determined 
to  move  the  statuary  to  a  place  in  the  S.  aisle  of 
our  parish  church,  as  a  memorial,  the  moral 
whereof  I  have  leave  of  John  and  Grace  Magor 
to  declare  to  all  the  parish.  I  choose  to  defer 
making  it  public,  in  tenderness,  while  they  live  : 
for  all  things  point  as  yet  to  the  permanent  saving 

i95 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

of  their  souls.  But,  as  in  the  course  of  nature  I 
shall  predecease  them,  I  set  the  record  here  in  the 
Parish  Register,  as  its  best  place. 

'  (Signed)     Malachi  Hichens,  B.D. 

'  21st  Jan.,  1719.' 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes  and  no,"  said  the  Vicar,  closing  the  book. 
"  It  is  all  that  Mr.  Hichens  has  left  to  help  us  :  and 
you  may  or  may  not  connect  with  it  what  I  am  going 
to  relate  of  my  own  experience  .  .  .  The  old 
church,  as  you  know,  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  the 
morning  hours  of  Christmas  Day,  1870.  Throughout 
Christmas  Eve  and  for  a  great  part  of  the  night  it 
had  been  snowing,  but  the  day  broke  brilliantly,  on 
a  sky  without  wind  or  cloud  ;  and  never  have  my 
eyes  seen  anything  so  terribly  beautiful — ay,  so 
sublime — as  the  sight  which  met  them  at  the  lych- 
gate.  The  old  spire — which  served  as  a  sea-mark 
for  the  fishermen,  and  was  kept  regularly  white- 
washed that  it  might  be  the  more  conspicuous — 
glittered  in  the  morning  sunshine  from  base  to 
summit,  as  though  matching  its  whiteness  against 
that  of  the  snow-laden  elms  :  and  in  this  frame  of 
pure  silverwork,  burning  without  noise  and  with 
scarcely  any  smoke — this  by  reason  of  the  excessive 
dryness  of  the  woodwork — the  church  stood  one 
glowing  vault  of  fire.  There  was  indeed  so  little 
smoke   that   at   the   first   alarm,   looking   from   my 

196 


NOT    HERE,    O    APOLLO  ! 

bedroom  window,  I  had  been  incredulous  ;  and  still 
I  wondered  rather  than  believed,  staring  into  this 
furnace  wherein  every  pillar,  nook,  seat  or  text  on 
the  wall  was  distinctly  visible,  the  south  windows 
being  burnt  out  and  the  great  door  thrown  open  and 
on  fire. 

"  There  was  no  entrance  possible  here,  or  indeed 
anywhere  :  but,  being  half-distraught,  I  ran  around 
to  the  small  door  of  the  north  aisle.  This  too  was 
on  fire — or,  rather,  was  already  consumed  ;  and  you 
will  say  that  I  must  have  been  wholly  distraught 
when  I  tell  you  what  I  saw,  looking  in  through  the 
aperture  through  which  it  would  have  been  death 
to  pass.     I  saw  him." 

"  You  saw  the  young  man  Luke  ?  "  I  asked,  as 
he  paused,  inviting  a  word. 

"  He  was  standing  by  the  stone  figures  within  the 
porch  .  .  .  And  they  crumbled — crumbled  before 
my  eyes  in  the  awful  heat.  But  he  stood  scatheless. 
He  was  young  and  comely  ;  the  hair  of  his  head  was 
not  singed.  He  was  as  one  of  the  three  that  walked 
in  the  midst  of  Nebuchadnezzar's  furnace  .  .  . 
When  the  stone  slab  was  crumbled  to  a  handful 
of  dust,  he  moved  up  the  aisle  and  was  gone  .  .  . 
That  is  all  :  but,  as  you  accept  your  friend  for  a 
truthful  man,  explain,  O  sceptic  !  " 

— And  again  there  fell  a  silence  in  the  garden. 


I(J7 


Fiat  Justitia  Ruat  Solum 


In  the  days  of  my  childhood,  and  up  to  the  year 
1886,  the  Justices  of  the  Peace  for  the  Gantick 
Division  of  the  Hundred  of  Powder,  in  the  county 
of  Cornwall,  held  their  Petty  Sessions  at  Scawns, 
a  bleak,  four-square  building  set  on  the  knap 
of  a  windy  hill,  close  beside  the  high  road  that 
leads  up  from  the  sea  to  the  market  town  of 
Tregarrick.  The  house,  when  the  county  in  Quarter 
Sessions  purchased  it  to  convert  it  into  a  police 
station  and  petty  sessional  court,  had  been  derelict 
for  twenty  years — that  is  to  say,  ever  since  the 
winter  of  1827,  when  Squire  Nicholas,  the  last  owner 
to  reside  in  it  (himself  an  ornament  in  his  time  of 
the  Gantick  Bench),  broke  his  neck  in  the  hunting 
field.  With  his  death,  the  property  passed  to  some 
distant  cousin  in  the  North,  who  seldom  visited 
Cornwall.  This  cousin  leased  the  Scawns  acres  to  a 
farmer  alongside  of  whose  fields  they  marched,  and 
the  farmer,  having  no  use  for  the  mansion,  gladly 
sub-let  it.  The  county  authorities,  having  acquired 
the  lease,  did  indeed  make  certain  structural 
adaptations,   providing   tolerable   quarters   for   the 

199 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

local  constabulary,  with  a  lock-up  in  the  cellarage 
(which  was  commodious),  but  for  the  rest  did  little 
to  arrest  the  general  decay  of  the  building.  In 
particular,  the  disrepair  of  the  old  dining-room, 
where  the  magistrates  now  held  Session,  had  become 
a  public  scandal.  The  old  wall-paper  drooped  in 
tatters,  the  ceiling  showed  patches  where  the  plaster 
had  broken  from  the  battens,  rats  had  eaten  holes 
in  the  green  baize  table-cloth,  and  the  whole  place 
smelt  of  dry-rot.  From  the  wall  behind  the 
magistrates'  table,  in  the  place  where  nations 
more  superstitious  than  ours  suspend  a  crucifix,  an 
atrocious  portrait  of  the  late  Squire  Nicholas  surveyed 
the  desolated  scene  of  his  former  carousals.  An 
inscription  at  the  base  of  the  frame  commemorated 
him  as  one  who  had  consistently  "  Done  Right  to  all 
manner  of  People  after  the  Laws  and  Usages  of  the 
Realm,  without  Fear  or  Favour,  Affection  or 
Ill-will." 

Beneath  this  portrait,  on  the  second  Wednesday  in 
July,  1886,  were  gathered  no  fewer  than  six  Justices 
of  the  Peace,  a  number  the  more  astonishing  because 
Petty  Sessions  chanced  to  clash  with  the  annual 
meeting  of  the  Royal  Cornwall  Agricultural  Society, 
held  that  year  at  the  neighbouring  market  town  of 
Tregarrick.  Now,  the  reason  of  this  full  bench  was 
at  once  simple  and  absurd,  and  had  caused  merriment 
not  unmixed  with  testiness  in  the  magistrates' 
private  room.  Each  Justice,  counting  on  his 
neighbour's  delinquency,  had  separately  resolved  to 

200 


FIAT    JUSTITIA    RUAT    SOLUM 

pay  a  sacrifice  to  public  duty,  and  to  drop  in  to  dispose 
of  the  business  of  Sessions  before  proceeding  to  the 
Show.  The  charge-sheet,  be  it  noted,  was 
abnormally  light  :  it  comprised  one  single 
indictment. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  growled  Admiral  Trist,  Chairman 
of  the  Bench,  Master  of  the  famous  Gantick  Harriers. 
"  Six  of  us  to  hear  a  case  of  sleeping  out  !  " 

"  Who  's  the  defendant  ?  "  asked  Sir  Felix  Felix- 
Williams.  "  '  Thomas  Edwards  ' — Don't  know  the 
name  in  these  parts." 

"  I  doubt  if  he  knows  it  himself,  Sir  Felix," 
answered  Mr.  Batty,  the  Justices'  Clerk.  "  The 
Inspector  tells  me  it  's  a  tramping  fellow  the  police 
picked  up  two  nights  ago.  He  has  been  in  lock-up 
ever  since." 

'  Then  why  the  devil  couldn't  they  have  sent  round 
and  fished  up  one  of  us — or  a  couple — to  deal  with 
the  case  out  of  hand  ?  " 

"  Damned  shame,  the  way  the  police  nurse  this 
business  !  "  murmured  Lord  Rattley,  our  somewhat 
disreputable  local  peer.  "  They  're  wanted  at 
Tregarrick  to-day,  and,  what  's  more,  they  want  the 
fun  of  the  Show.  So  they  take  excellent  care  to 
keep  the  charge-list  light.  But  since  Petty  Sessions 
must  be  held,  whether  or  no,  they  pounce  on  some 
poor  devil  of  a  tramp  to  put  a  face  on  the 
business." 

"  H'm,  h'm."  The  Admiral,  friend  of  law  and 
order,  dreaded  Lord   Rattley's  tongue,  which  was 

201 


NEWS     FROM    THE    DUCHY 

irresponsible  and    incisive.     "  Well,   if    this    is    our 
only  business,  gentlemen " 

"  There  is  another  case,  sir,"  put  in  Mr.  Batty. 
"  Wife — Trudgian  by  name — wants  separation  order. 
Application  reached  me  too  late  to  be  included  in 
the  list." 

"  Trudgian  ?  '  queried  Parson  Voisey.  "  Not 
Selina  Magor,  I  hope,  that  married  young  Trudgian 
a  year  or  so  back  ?  Husband  a  clay-labourer, 
living  somewhere  outside  Tregarrick." 

"  That  's  the  woman.  Young  married  couple — 
first  quarrel.  The  wife,  on  her  own  admission,  had 
used  her  tongue  pretty  sharply,  and,  I  don't  doubt, 
drove  the  man  off  to  the  public  house,  where  he  sat 
until  sulky-drunk.  A  talking-to  by  the  Chairman, 
if  I  might  suggest " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  agreed  Parson  Voisey.  "  And  I  '11 
have  a  word  with  Selina  afterwards.  She  used  to 
attend  my  Young  Women's  Class — one  of  my  most 
satisfactory  girls." 

"  We  '11  see— we  '11  see,"  said  the  Admiral.  "  Are 
we  ready,  gentlemen  ?  " 

He  led  the  way  into  Court,  where  all  rose  in  sign 
of  respect — Mr.  Batty's  confidential  clerk,  the 
Inspector,  a  solitary  constable,  a  tattered  old  man 
in  the  constable's  charge,  and  the  two  Trudgians. 
These  last  occupied  extreme  ends  of  the  same  form  ; 
the  husband  sullen,  with  set  jaw  and  eyes  obstinately 
fixed  on  his  boots,  the  young  wife  flushed  of  face  and 
tearful,  stealing  from  time  to  time  a  defiant  glance 
at  her  spouse. 

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FIAT    JUSTITIA    RUAT    SOLUM 

In  face  of  this  scanty  audience  the  six  Justices 
solemnly  took  their  seats. 

"  Thomas  Edwards  !  "  called  the  Clerk. 

The  tattered  old  man  cringed  up  to  the  table, 
with  an  embarrassed  smile,  which  yet  had  a  touch 
of  impudence  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth. 

"  Thomas  Edwards,  you  stand  charged  for  that  on 
a  certain  date,  to  wit,  July  6th,  you,  not  having  any 
visible  means  of  subsistence,  and  not  giving  a  good 
account  of  yourself,  were  found  lodging  in  a  certain 
outhouse  known  as  Lobb's  Barn,  in  the  Parish  of 
Gantick,  contrary,  etc.  Do  you  plead  Guilty  or 
Not  Guilty  ?  " 

"  Guilty,  y'r  Worships." 

The  constable,  on  a  nod  from  the  Inspector,  cleared 
his  throat,  and  stated  the  charge  :  "  On  the  6th 
instant,  y'r  Worships,  at  10.45  in  the  evening,  being 
on  duty  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lobb's  Barn,"  etc. 
Defendant,  on  being  arrested,  had  used  the  filthiest 
language,  and  had  for  some  time  stoutly  resisted 
being  marched  off  to  the  lock-up. 

"  That  will  do,"  the  Chairman  interrupted.  "  You 
Edwards — if  that  's  your  real  name " 

"  It  '11  do  for  this  job,"  put  in  the  prisoner. 

"  Very  well.     Have  you  anything  to  say  ?  ' 

The  prisoner  ran  his  eye  along  the  array  of  Justices. 

"  Seems  a  lot  o'  dogs  for  one  small  bone  !  " 

The  Admiral  stiffened  with  wrath,  and  the  crimson 
of  his  face  deepened  as  Lord  Rattley  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  laughing. 

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NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

"  Forty  shillings,  or  a  month  !  " 

"Oh,  come — I  say  !  "  Lord  Rattley  murmured. 

The  Admiral,  glancing  to  right  and  left,  saw  too 
that  three  or  four  of  his  colleagues  were  lifting  their 
eyebrows  in  polite  protest. 

'  I — I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,  for  not 
consulting  you !  Correct  me,  if  you  will.  I  would 
point  out,  however,  that  in  addition  to  the  offence 
with  which  he  is  charged,  this  fellow  was  guilty  of 
violent  and  disgusting  language,  and,  further,  of 
resisting  the  police." 

But  his  colleagues  made  no  further  protest,  and 
Thomas  Edwards,  having  but  two  coppers  to  his 
name,  was  conducted  below  to  the  cellarage,  there  to 
await  transference  to  the  County  Jail. 

"  Selina  Trudgian  !  " 

The  Admiral,  viewing  the  young  couple  as  they 
stood  sheepishly  before  him,  commanded  Selina  to 
state  her  complaint  as  briefly  as  possible,  avoiding 
tears. 

But  this  was  beyond  her. 

"  He  came  home  drunk,  your  Worship,"  she 
sobbed,  twisting  her  handkerchief. 

"  I  didn',"  corrected  her  husband. 

"  He  came  home  d-drunk,  your  Worship  .  .  . 
he  c-came  home  d-drunk " 

"  Now  hearken  to  me,  you  two  !  " 

The  Admiral,  fixing  a  severe  eye  on  them,  started 
to  read  them  a  lesson  on  married  life,  with  its 
daily  discipline,  its  constant  obligation   of   mutual 

204 


FIAT    JUSTITIA    RUAT    SOLUM 

forbearance.  For  a  comfirmed  bachelor,  he  did  it 
remarkably  well ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
this  was  by  no  means  his  first  essay  in  lecturing 
discordant  spouses  from  the  Bench.  Lord  Rattley, 
whose  own  matrimonial  ventures  had  been  (like 
Mr.  Weller's  researches  in  London)  extensive  and 
peculiar,  leaned  back  and  followed  the  discourse  with 
appreciation,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  his  ringer-tips  delicately  pressed  together,  his 
gaze  pensively  tracking  the  motions  of  a  bumble-bee 
that  had  strayed  in  at  an  open  window  and  was 
battering  its  head  against  the  dusty  pane  of  a  closed 
one. 

Just  then,  the  Admiral,  warming  to  his  theme, 
pushed  back  his  chair  a  few  inches.    .    .    . 

For  some  days  previously  a  stream  of  traction- 
engines  had  passed  along  the  high  road,  dragging 
timber- wagons,  tent-wagons,  machinery,  exhibits  of 
all  kinds,  towards  the  Tregarrick  Show.  This  heavy 
traffic  (it  was  afterwards  surmised)  had  helped  what 
Wordsworth  calls  "  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time," 
shaking  the  dry-rotted  joists  of  Scawns  House,  and 
preparing  the  catastrophe. 

The  Admiral  was  a  heavy-weight.  He  rode,  in 
those  days,  at  close  upon  seventeen  stone.  As  he 
thrust  back  his  chair,  there  came  from  the  floor 
beneath — from  the  wall  immediately  behind  him — 
an  ominous,  rending  sound.  The  hind  legs  of  his 
chair  sank  slowly,  the  seat  of  justice  tilted  farther  and 
farther  ;  as  he  clutched  wildly  at  the  table,  the  table 

205 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

began  to  slide  upon  him,  and  with  an  uproar  of 
cracking  timber,  table,  chairs,  magistrates,  clerks, 
together,  in  one  burial  blent,  were  shot  downwards 
into  the  cellarage. 

The  Inspector — a  tall  man — staggering  to  his  feet 
as  the  table  slid  from  him  into  the  chasm,  leapt  and 
clutched  a  crazy  chandelier  that  depended  above  him. 
His  weight  tore  it  bodily  from  the  ceiling,  with  a 
torrential  downrush  of  dust  and  plaster,  sweeping 
him  over  the  edge  of  the  gulf  and  overwhelming  the 
Trudgians,  husband  and  wife,  on  the  brink  of  it. 

At  this  moment  the  constable,  fresh  from  locking 
up  Thomas  Edwards  below,  returned,  put  his  head 
in  at  the  door,  gasped  at  sight  of  a  devastation  which 
had  swallowed  up  every  human  being,  and  with 
great  presence  of  mind,  ran  as  hard  as  he  could  pelt 
for  the  hamlet  of  High  Lanes,  half  a  mile  away,  to 
summon  help. 

Now  the  Inspector,  as  it  happened,  was  unhurt. 
Picking  himself  up,  digging  his  heels  into  the  moraine 
of  plaster,  and  brushing  the  grit  from  his  eyes,  he 
had  the  pleasure  of  recognising  Lord  Rattley,  the 
Parson,  Mr.  Humphry  Felix-Williams  (son  of  Sir 
Felix),  and  Mr.  Batty,  as  they  scrambled  forth 
successively,  black  with  dust  but  unhurt,  save  that 
the  Parson  had  received  a  slight  scalp-wound. 
Then  Mr.  Humphry  caught  sight  of  a  leg  clothed  in 
paternal  shepherd's-plaid,  and  tugged  at  it  until 
Sir  Felix  was  restored,  choking,  to  the  light  of  day — 
or  rather,  to  the  Cimmerian  gloom  of  the  cellarage, 

206 


FIAT    JUSTITIA    RUAT    SOLUM 

in  which  an  unexpected  figure  now  confronted 
them. 

It  was  the  prisoner,  Thomas  Edwards.  A 
collapsing  beam  had  torn  away  some  bricks  from  the 
wall  of  his  cell,  and  he  came  wriggling  through  the 
aperture,  using  the  most  dreadful  oaths. 

"  Stir  yourselves Oh, , ,  stir  your- 
selves !     Standin'  there  like  a lot  of  stuck  pigs  ! 

Get  out  the  Admiral  !  The  Admiral,  I  tell  you  ! 
.  .  .  Hark  to  the  poor  old  devil,  dammin'  away 
down  ther,  wi'  two  hundredweight  o'  table  pressin' 
against  his  belly  !  " 

Mr.  Edwards,  in  fact,  used  an  even  more  vulgar 
word.  But  he  was  not  stopping  to  weigh  words. 
Magistrates,  Inspector,  Clerk  —  he  took  charge  of 
them  all  on  the  spot  —  a  master  of  men.  The 
Admiral,  in  the  unfathomed  dark  of  the  cellar,  was 
indeed  uttering  language  to  make  your  hair 
creep. 

"  Oh,  cuss  away,  y'  old  varmint  !  "  sang  down  Mr. 
Edwards  cheerfully.  "  The  louder  you  cuss,  the 
better  hearin'  ;  means  ye  have  air  to  breathe  an' 
nothin'  broke  internal.  ...  Eh  ?  Oh,  /  knows 
th'  old  warrior  !  Opened  a  gate  for  en  once  when  he 
was  out  hare-huntin',  up  St.  Germans  way — I  likes 
a  bit  o'  sport,  I  do,  when  I  happens  on  it.  Lord  love 
ye,  the  way  he  damned  my  eyes  for  bein'  slow  about 
it  !  .  .  .  Aye,  aye,  Admiral  !  Cuss  away,  cuss  away 
— proper  quarter-deck  you  're  givin'  us  !  But  we  're 
gettin'  to  you  fast  as  we  can.    .    .    .    England  can't 

207 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

spare  the  likes  o'  you — an'  she  won't,  not  if  we  can 
help  it !  " 

The  man  worked  like  a  demon.  What  is  more,  he 
was  making  the  others  work,  flailing  them  all — peer 
and  baronet  and  parson — with  slave-driver's  oaths, 
while  they  tugged  to  loosen  the  timbers  under  which 
the  magistrates'  table  lay  wedged. 

"  Lift,  I  tell  ye  !    Lift  !    .    .    .    What  the 's 

wrong  with  that  end  o'  the  beam  ?  Stuck,  is  it  ? 
Jammed  ?  Jammed  your  grandmothers  !  Nobbut 
a  few  pounds  o'  loose  lime  an'  plaster  beddin'  it. 
■Get  down  on  your  knees  an'  clear  it.  .  .  .  That 's 
better  !  And  now  pull  !  Pull,  I  say  !  Oh,  not 
that  way,  you  rabbits  ! — here,  let  me  show  you  !  " 

By  efforts  Herculean,  first  digging  the  rubbish 
clear  with  clawed  hands,  then  straining  and  heaving 
till  their  loins  had  almost  cracked,  they  levered  up 
ihe  table  at  length,  and  released  not  only  the  Admiral, 
but  the  two  remaining  magistrates,  whom  they  found 
pinned  under  its  weight,  one  unharmed,  but  in  a 
swoon,  the  other  moaning  feebly  with  the  pain  of 
two  broken  ribs. 

"  Whew  !  What  the  devil  of  a  smell  of  brandy  !  " 
■observed  Lord  Rattley,  mopping  his  brow  in  the 
intervals  of  helping  to  hoist  the  rescued  ones  up  the 
moraine.  At  the  top  of  it,  the  Inspector,  lifting  his 
head  above  the  broken  flooring  to  shout  for  help, 
broke  into  furious  profanity  ;  for  there,  in  the  empty 
court-room  stood  young  Trudgian  and  his  wife, 
covered,    indeed,    with    white    dust,    but    blissfully 

208 


FIAT    JUSTITIA    RUAT    SOLUM 

wrapt  in  their  own  marvellous  escape  ;  and  young 
Trudgian  for  the  moment  was  wholly  preoccupied  in 
probing  with  two  fingers  for  a  piece  of  plaster  which 
had  somehow  found  its  way  down  his  Selina's  back, 
between  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  the  bodice. 

"  Drop  it,  you  fool,  and  lend  a  hand  !  "  objurgated 
the  Inspector ;  whereupon  Mrs.  Trudgian  turned 
about,  bridling. 

"  You  leave  my  Tom  alone,  please  !  A  man's 
first  call  is  on  his  wedded  wife,  I  reckon." 

The  rescued  magistrates  were  lifted  out,  carried 
forth  into  fresh  air,  and  laid  on  the  turf  by  the  wayside 
to  recover  somewhat,  while  the  rescuers  again  wiped 
perspiring  brows. 

"  A  thimbleful  o'  brandy  might  do  the  Admiral 
good,"  suggested  the  prisoner. 

"  Brandy  ?  "  cried  Lord  Rattley.  "  The  air  reeks 
of  brandy  !     Where  the ?  " 

"  The  basement 's  swimmin'  with  it,  m'  lord." 
The  fellow  touched  his  hat.  "  Two  casks  stove  by 
the  edge  o'  the  table.  I  felt  around  the  staves,  an' 
counted  six  others,  hale  an'  tight.  Thinks  I,  'tis 
what  their  Worships  will  have  been  keepin'  for 
private  use,  between  whiles.     Or  elst " 

"  Or  else  ?  " 

"  Or  else  maybe  we  've  tapped  a  private  cellar." 

Lord  Rattley  slapped  his  thigh. 

"  A  cache,  by  Jove  !  Old  Squire  Nicholas — I 
remember,  as  a  boy,  hearing  it  whispered  he  was 
hand-in-glove  with  the  smugglers." 

209 
14 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

The  prisoner  touched  his  hat  humbly. 

"  This  bein'  a  magistrates'  matter,  m'  lord,  an' 
me  not  wishin'  to  interfere  " 

"  Quite  so."  Lord  Rattley  felt  in  his  pockets. 
"  You  have  done  us  a  considerable  service,  my  man, 
and — er — that  bein'  so " 

"  Forty  shillin'  it  was.  He  's  cheap  at  it  " — with 
a  nod  towards  the  Admiral.  "  A  real  true-blue  old 
English  gentleman  !  You  can  always  tell  by  their 
conversations." 

"  The  fine  shall  be  paid." 

"  I  counted  six  casks,  m'  lord,  so  well  as  I  could 
by  the  feel " 

"  Yes,  yes  !  And  here  's  a  couple  of  sovereigns 
for  yourself — all  I  •  happen  to  have  in  my  pocket 


Lord  Rattley  bustled  off  to  the  house  for  brandy. 

"  England  's  old  England,  hows'ever  you  strike 
it  !  "  chirrupped  the  prisoner  gleefully,  and  touched 
his  forehead  again.  "  See  you  at  the  Show,  m'  lord, 
maybe  ?  Will  drink  your  lordship's  health  there, 
anyway." 

He  skipped  away  up  the  road  towards  Tregarrick. 
In  the  opposite  direction  young  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trudgian 
could  be  seen  just  passing  out  of  sight,  he  supporting 
her  with  his  arm,  pausing  every  now  and  then, 
bending  over  her  uxoriously. 


210 


Tke   Honour  of   the  Skip 


"  'Erbert  'Enery  Bates  !  " 

"  Wot  cheer  !  " 

It  was  the  morning  of  Speech-day  on  board  the 
Industrial  Training  Ship  Egeria — July  the  31st,  to 
be  precise.  At  3  p.m.  Sir  Felix  Felix-Williams, 
Baronet,  would  arrive  to  distribute  the  prizes. 
He  would  be  attended  by  a  crowd  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  ;  and  the  speeches,  delivered  beneath  an 
awning  on  the  upper  deck,  would  be  '"■illy  reported 
next  day  in  the  local  newspapers.  The  weather 
promised  to  be  propitious. 

Just  now  (n  a.m.)  some  half  a  dozen  of  the  elder 
boys,  attired  in  dirty  white  dungaree  and  bare- 
footed, were  engaged  in  swabbing  out  what,  in  her 
sea-going  days,  had  been  the  Egeria's  ward-room, 
making  ready  to  set  out  tables  for  an  afternoon  tea 
to  follow  the  ceremony.  They  were  nominally  under 
supervision  of  the  ship's  Schoolmaster,  who,  however, 
had  gone  off  to  unpack  a  hamper  of  flowers — the  gift 
of  an  enthusiastic  subscriber. 

"  Step  this  way,  'Erbert  'Enery  Bates." 

"  You  go  to  hell,  Link  Andrew  !  "  But  the  boy 
stopped  his  work  and  faced  about,  nevertheless. 


21 1 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

"  See  this  flag  ?  "  Link  Andrew  dived  his  long 
arms  into  a  pile  of  bunting  that  lay  ready  for 
decorating  the  tea-room.     "  Wot  is  it  ?  " 

"  Union  Jack,  o'  course,  you  silly  rotter  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  good,  good  boy  !  .  .  .  Yes,  dear 
lads,"  went  on  Link  Andrew,  in  a  mimicking  voice, 
"  it  is  indeed  the  meet-your-flag  of  our  'oly  Mother- 
land, and  'Erbert  'Enery  Bates,  our  Good  Conduck 
Medallist,  will  now  oblige  by  going  down  on  his 
knees  and  kissing  it.     Else  I  '11  put  an  eye  on  him !  " 

Master  Bates — "  Good  Conduct  Bates  " — stepped 
forward,  with  his  fists  up.  He  was  something  of  a 
sneak  and  a  sucker-up,  yet  by  no  means  a  coward. 
He  advanced  bravely  enough,  although  he  knew  that 
Link  Andrew — the  best  boxer  in  the  ship — was 
provoking  him  of  set  purpose. 

The  rest  of  the  boys  liked  Link  and  disliked  Bates  ; 
yet  their  sense  of  fair  play  told  them  that  Link  was 
putting  himself  in  the  wrong ;  and  yet  again, 
despite  their  natural  eagerness  to  see  a  fight,  they 
wanted  to  save  Link  from  what  could  but  end  in 
folly.     He  was  playing  for  a  fall. 

"  Here  comes  Schoolmaster  !  "  shouted  one,  at  a 
venture. 

At  that  moment,  indeed,  the  Schoolmaster  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"  What  's  this  noise  about  ?  "  he  demanded. 
"  You,  Link  Andrew  !  I  thought  your  interest  was 
to  avoid  trouble  for  twenty-four  hours." 


212 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 


II 

By  the  Industrial  Schools  Act  of  1866,  29  &  30 
Vict.  c.  118,  it  is  ordained  that  any  youngster 
apparently  under  the  age  of  fourteen  found  begging, 
or  wandering  destitute,  or  consorting  with  thieves, 
or  obstinately  playing  truant  from  school,  or  guilty 
of  being  neglected  by  his  parents,  or  of  defying  his 
parents,  or  of  having  a  parent  who  has  incurred  a 
sentence  of  penal  servitude — may  by  any  two 
justices  be  committed  to  a  certified  Industrial  School, 
there  to  be  detained  until  he  reaches  the  age  of 
sixteen,  or  for  a  shorter  term  if  the  justices  shall 
so  direct.  Such  an  Industrial  School  was  the 
ex-battleship  Egeria. 

She  had  carried  seventy-four  guns  in  her  time  ; 
and  though  gunless  now  and  jury-masted,  was 
redolent  still  of  the  Nelson  period  from  her  white-and- 
gold  figure-head  to  the  beautiful  stern  galleries  which 
Commander  Headworthy  had  adorned  with  window- 
boxes  of  Henry  Jacoby  geraniums.  The  Committee 
in  the  first  flush  of  funds  had  spared  no  pains  to  re- 
produce the  right  atmosphere,  and  in  that  atmosphere 
Commander  Headworthy  laudably  endeavoured  to 
train  up  his  crew  of  graceless  urchins,  and  to  pass 
them  out  at  sixteen,  preferably  into  the  Navy  or  the 
Merchant  Service,  but  at  any  rate  as  decent  members 
of  society.  Nor  were  the  boys'  nautical  experiences 
entirely  stationary,   since   a  wealthy      sympathiser 

213 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

(lately  deceased)  had  bequeathed  his  fine  brigantine 
yacht  to  serve  the  ship  as  a  tender  and  take  a  few 
score  of  the  elder  or  more  privileged  lads  on  an  annual 
summer  cruise,  that  they  might  learn  something 
of  practical  seamanship. 

The  yacht — by  name  the  Swallow — an  old  but 
shapely  craft  of  some  200  tons,  lay  just  now  a 
short  cable's  length  from  the  parent  ship,  with  sails 
bent  and  all  ready  for  sea  ;  for  by  custom  the  annual 
cruise  started  on  the  day  next  after  the  prize-giving. 

The  question  was :  Would  Link  Andrew  be 
allowed  to  go  ? 

He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  go.  He  even 
meditated  ways  of  suicide  if  the  Commander,  for 
a  punishment,  should  veto  his  going.  During  the 
last  three  weeks  he  had  run  up  an  appalling  tally 
of  black  marks,  and  yet  it  was  generally  agreed  that 
the  Commander  would  relent  if  Link  would  only 
keep  his  temper  and  behave  with  common  prudence 
for  another  twenty-four  hours. 

But  this  was  just  what  Link  seemed  wholly  unable 
to  do.  He  hated  the  ship,  the  officers,  everything  in 
life  ;  and  the  hot  July  weather  worked  upon  this 
hatred  until  it  became  a  possessing  fury. 


214 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 


III 

At  dinner-time  he  very  nearly  wrecked  his  chance 
for  good  and  all. 

Shortly  before  a  noon  a  mild-looking  gentleman, 
noticeable  for  his  childlike  manner  and  a  pair  of 
large  round  spectacles,  came  alongside  the  Egeria 
in  a  shore-boat.  It  appeared  that  he  bore  a  visitor's 
ticket  for  the  afternoon  function  and  had  arrived 
thus  early  by  invitation  of  one  of  the  Committee 
to  take  a  good  look  over  the  ship  before  the  pro- 
ceedings began.  Apparently,  too,  the  Committee- 
man had  sent  Commander  Headworthy  no  warning 
— to  judge  from  that  officer's  wrathful  face  and  the 
curt  tone  in  which  he  invited  his  visitor  to  luncheon. 

The  mild-looking  gentleman — who  gave  his  name 
as  Harris — declined  courteously,  averring  that  he 
had  brought  a  sandwich  with  him.  The  Commander 
thereupon  turned  him  over  to  the  Second  Officer 
under  whose  somewhat  impatient  escort  Mr.  Harris 
made  a  thorough  tour  of  the  ship,  peering  into 
everything  and  asking  a  number  of  questions.  The 
boys — whom  he  amused  by  opening  a  large  white 
umbrella,  green-lined,  to  shield  him  from  the  noonday 
sun  on  the  upper  deck — promptly  christened  him 
"Moonface." 

This  Mr.  Harris,  still  in  charge  of  the  Second  Officer, 
happened  along  the  gun-deck  as  they  finished  singing 
"  Be  present  at  our  table,  Lord,"   and  were  sitting 

215 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

down  to  dinner.  From  their  places  they  marched  up 
one  by  one,  each  with  his  dinner-basin,  to  have  it 
filled  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"  Hullo,  you,  Andrew  !  "  called  out  the  Second 
Officer.  "  Fetch  that  basin  along  here.  I  want  the 
gentleman  to  have  a  look  at  the  ship's  food." 

Link  came  forward,  stretched  out  a  long  arm,  and 
thrust  the  basin  under  the  visitor's  nose. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  "  the  toff  would  like  a  sniff 
at  the  same  time  ?  There  's  Sweet  Williams  for 
a  summer's  day  !  " 

"  There,  that  '11  do,  Link  !  Go  to  your  place, 
my  lad,  and  don't  be  insolent,"  said  the  Second 
Officer  hastily,  with  a  nervous  glance  at  Mr.  Harris. 

But  Mr.  Harris  merely  blinked  behind  his  glasses. 

"  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  he  agreed.  "  Pork  is 
tricky  diet  in  such  weather  as  we  're  having  !  " 


216 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 


IV 

Half  an  hour  later,  having  detached  himself  gently 
from  his  escort,  Mr.  Harris  wandered  back  to  the 
upper  deck.  It  appeared  to  be  deserted ;  and 
Mr.  Harris,  unfolding  his  umbrella  against  the  sun's 
rays,  wandered  at  will. 

In  the  waist  of  the  vessel,  on  the  port  side,  he 
came  upon  a  dais  and  a  baize-covered  table  with 
an  awning  rigged  over  them  ;  and  upon  the  ship's 
Schoolmaster,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  arranging" 
the  prize-books. 

"  Good  afternoon,  sir !  "  The  Schoolmaster, 
affecting  to  be  busy  and  polite  at  the  same  time,, 
picked  out  a  book  and  held  it  up  to  view.  "  Smiles 
on  Self  Help,"  he  announced. 

'  You  don't  say  so  !  '  answered  Mr.  Harris, 
halting.  "  But — I  mean — they  can't  very  well, 
can  they  ?  " 

"  Eric,  or  Little  by  Little,  by  the  late  Archdeacon 
Farrar.  My  choice,  sir  ;  some  light,  you  see,  and 
others  solid,  but  all  pure  literature.  .  .  .  They 
value  it,  too,  in  after  life.  Ah,  sir,  they  've  a  lot  of 
good  in  'em  !  There  's  many  worse  characters  than 
my  boys  walking  the  world." 

Mild  Mr.  Harris  removed  his  glasses. 

"  Are  you  talking  like  that  from  force  of  habit  ?  " 
he  asked.    "  If  so,  I  shall  not  be  so  much  annoyed." 


217 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

The  Schoolmaster  was  fairly  taken  aback.  He 
stared  for  a  moment  and  shifted  his  helm,  so  to 
speak,  with  a  grin  of  intelligence  and  a  short 
laugh. 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  sir,"  he  remonstrated. 
"  It  's — it  's — well,  you  may  call  it  the  atmosphere. 
On  Speech-day  the  ship  fairly  reeks  of  it." 

"  And,  like  the  pork,  eh  !  it  's  just  a  little  bit 
*  off '  ?  "  suggested  the  visitor,  returning  his  smile. 
"  By  the  way,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question  or  two 
about  a  boy.  His  name  is  Link — Something-or- 
other." 

"  Link  Andrew  ?  "  The  Schoolmaster  gave  him 
a  quick  look.  "  You  don't  tell  me  he  's  in  trouble 
again  ?    Not  been  annoying  you,  sir,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  've  take  a  fancy  to  the  lad  ; 
and,  by  the  way  again,  Link  can't  be  his  real  name  ?  " 

"  Short  for  Abraham  Lincoln,  as  baptised," 
explained  the  Schoolmaster.  "  At  least,  that  \s  one 
theory.  According  to  another  it  's  short  for  '  Missing 
Link.'  Not  that  the  boy 's  bad-looking  ;  but  did  you 
happen  to  notice  the  length  of  his  arms — like  a 
gorilla's  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  avoid  it." 

Mr.  Harris  related  the  incident. 

"  It  was  exceedingly  kind  of  you,  sir,  to  pass  over 
his  conduct  so  lightly.  The  fact  is,  if  Link  Andrew 
had  been  reported  again  he  'd  have  lost  his  hammock 
in  the  yacht.  We  all  want  him  to  go  :  some  to  get 
rid  of  him  for  a  spell,  and  others  because  we  can't 

218 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 

help  liking  the  boy.  He  hates  us  back,  you  bet, 
and  has  hated  us  from  the  moment  he  set  foot  on 
deck,  five  years  ago.  .  .  .  Whitechapel-reared,  I 
believe.  .  .  .  Yet  fond  of  the  sea  in  his  way. 
Once  shipped  on  the  yacht  he  '11  behave  like  an  angel. 
But  here  on  board  he  's  like  a  young  beast  in 
a  trap." 


219 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 


V 

Mr.  Harris  mooned  away  to  the  poop-deck,  from 
the  rail  of  which  he  watched  the  guests  arriving. 
As  Sir  Felix's  gig  was  descried  putting  off  from  the 
shore,  the  boys  swarmed  up  the  ratlines  and  out  on 
the  yards,  where  they  dressed  ship  very  prettily. 
A  brass  band  in  the  waist  hailed  his  approach  with 
the  strains  of  "  Rule,  Britannia  !  '  At  the  head  of 
the  accommodation-ladder  a  guard  of  honour 
welcomed  him  with  a  hastily  rehearsed  "  Present 
Arms  !  "  and  the  boys  aloft  accompanied  it  with  three 
shrill  British  cheers.  The  dear  old  gentleman  gazed 
up  and  around  him,  and  positively  beamed. 

By  this  time  a  crowd  of  boats  had  put  off,  and 
soon  the  guests  came  pouring  up  the  ladder  in  a 
steady  stream.  There  were  ladies  in  picture  hats. 
A  reporter  stood  by  the  gangway  taking  notes  of 
their  costumes.  They  fell  to  uttering  the  prettiest 
exclamations  upon  the  shipshapeness  of  everything 
on  board.  Mr.  Harris  saw  the  First  Officer  inviting 
numbers  of  them  to  lean  over  the  bulwarks  and 
observe  a  scar  the  old  ship  had  received — or  so  he 
alleged — at  Trafalgar.  "  How  interesting  !  "  they 
cried. 

Well,  to  be  sure,  it  was  interesting.  Nelson  himself 
— there  was  good  authority  for  this  at  any  rate — had 
once  stood  on  the  Egeria's  poop ;  had  leaned, 
perhaps,  against  the  very  rail  on  which  Mr.  Harris's 

•220 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 

hand  rested.  .  .  .  And  the  function  went  off  very 
well  The  boys  clambered  down  upon  deck  again, 
the  band  played — 

"  'Tis  a  Fine  Old  English  Gentleman," 

and  all  gathered  about  the  awning.  Sh  Felix, 
nobly  expansive  in  a  buff  waistcoat,  cleared  his 
throat  and  spoke  of  the  Empire  in  a  way  calculated 
to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes.  The  prize-giving  followed. 
As  it  proceeded  Mr.  Harris  stole  down  the  poop- 
ladder  and  edged  his  way  around  the  back  of  the 
crowd  to  the  waist  of  the  ship,  where  the  boys  were 
drawn  up  with  a  few  officers  interspersed  to  keep 
discipline.  He  arrived  there  just  as  Link  Andrew 
returned  from  the  dais  with  two  books — the  boxing 
and  gymnasium  prize.  The  boy  was  foaming  at  the 
mouth. 

"  See,  here — Fights  for  the  Flag  !  And,  on  top  of 
it,  Deeds  What  Won  the  Silly  Empire  !  And  the  old 
blighter  'oped  that  I  'd  be  a  good  boy,  and  grow  up, 
and  win  some  more.  For  the  likes  of  him,  he  meant 
— Yuss,  I  don't  think  !  ...  Oh,  hold  my  little 
hand  and  check  the  tearful  flow,  for  I  'm  to  be  a 
ship's  boy  at  'arf-a-crown  a  month,  and  go  Empire 
buildin'  !  " 

"  There  !  "  said  Mr.  Harris,  indicating  a  coil  of 
rope.     "  Sit  down  and  have  it  out." 


221 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

VI 

Some  five  or  six  years  later,  Mr.  Harris — who  resides 
in  a  small  West-country  town,  the  name  of  which 
does  not  concern  us — was  seated  in  his  library 
reading,  when  his  parlourmaid  brought  him  a  card 
— "  Mr.  Wilkins,  I.T.S.  Egeria." 

"  I  scarcely  hoped  that  you  would  remember  me, 
sir,"  began  the  Schoolmaster,  on  being  introduced. 
"  But,  happening  to  pass  through — on  a  holiday 
trip,  a  walking  tour — I  ventured  to  call  and  ask  news 
of  Link  Andrew.  You  may  remember  our  having 
a  conversation  about  him  once  on  board  the  Egeria  ?  ' ' 

"  I  remember  it  perfectly,"  said  Mr.  Harris  ; 
"  and  you  '11  be  glad  to  hear  that  Andrew  is  doing 
remarkably  well ;  is  saving  money,  in  fact,  and 
contemplates  getting  married." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  that  is  good  hearing.  I  was  afraid 
that  he  might  have  left  your  employment." 

"  So,  to  be  sure,  he  has ;  taking  with  him,  moreover, 
an  excellent  character.  He  is  now  a  second  gardener 
at  a  steady  wage." 

"  You  can't  think,  sir,  how  you  relieve  my  mind. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  met  him,  less  than  an  hour  ago  ; 
and  by  his  manner  .  .  .  But  I  had  better  tell  you 
how  it  happened  :  I  knew,  of  course,  that  you  had 
interested  yourself  in  Link  and  found  a  job  for  him. 
But  after  he  'd  left  the  ship  he  never  let  us  hear  word 
of  his  doings.  .  .  .  Well,  passing  through  your 
town  just  now,  I  ran  up  against  him.  He  was 
coming  along  the  street,  and  I  recognised  him  on 

222 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 

the  instant ;  but  all  of  a  sudden  he  turned  and  began 
to  stare  in  at  a  shop-window — an  ironmonger's — 
giving  me  his  back.  I  made  sure,  of  course,  that  he 
hadn't  spied  me;  so  I  stepped  up  and  said  I,  '  Hullo, 
Link,  my  lad  !  '  clapping  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
He  turned  about,  treated  me  to  a  long  stare,  and 
says  he,  '  Aren't  you  makin'  some  mistake,  mister  ?  ' 
'  Why,'  says  I,  '  surely  I  haven't  changed  so  much 
as  all  that  since  the  days  I  taught  you  vulgar  fractions 
on  board  the  old  Egeria  ?  I  'm  Mr.  Wilkins,'  says  I. 
'  Oh,  are  you  ?  '  says  he.  '  Then,  Mr,  Wilkins,  you  can 
go  back  to  hell  and  take 'em  my  compliments  there/ 
That's  all  he  said,  and  he  walked  away  down  the  street, 

"  That 's  queer,"  said  Mr.  Harris,  polishing  his 
spectacles.  "  Yes,  he  came  to  me  as  gardener's  boy 
— I  thought  it  would  be  a  pleasant  change  after  the 
ship  ;  and  he  served  his  apprenticeship  well.  I  re- 
member that  in  answer  to  my  application  the  Secre- 
tary wrote  :  'Of  course  we  prefer  to  train  our  lads  to 
the  sea  ;  but  when  one  has  no  aptitude  for  it '  " 

Mr.  Harris  paused,  for  the  Schoolmaster  was 
smiling  broadly. 

"Good  Lord,  sir! — if  you'll  excuse  me.  Link 
Andrew  no  aptitude  for  the  sea  !  Why,  that  lad's 
seamanship  saved  my  life  once  :  and,  what 's  more, 
it  saved  the  whole  yacht's  company  !  Hasn't  he- 
ever  told  you  about  it  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word.  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Harris,  "  our 
friend  Link  chooses  to  keep  his  past  in  watertight 
compartments.     Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it." 

223 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 


VII 

This  was  the  Schoolmaster's  story  : — 

"It  happened  on  that  very  cruise,  sir.  The 
Swallow  had  been  knocking  around  at  various  West- 
country  regattas — Weymouth,  Torquay,  Dartmouth, 
finishing  up  with  Plymouth.  From  Plymouth  we 
were  to  sail  for  home. 

"  We  had  dropped  hook  in  the  Merchant  Shipping 
Anchorage,  as  they  call  it  ;  which  is  the  eastern 
side  of  the  Sound,  by  Jenny  cliff  Bay.  That  last  day 
■of  the  regattas — a  Saturday— the  wind  had  been 
almost  true  north,  and  freshish,  but  nothing  to 
mention  :  beautiful  sailing  weather  for  the  small 
boats.  The  big  cracks  had  finished  their  engage- 
ments and  were  making  back  for  Southampton. 

"  Well,  as  I  say,  this  north  wind  was  a  treat ; 
•especially  coming,  as  it  did,  after  a  week  of  light 
airs  and  calms  that  had  spoilt  most  of  the  yacht- 
racing.  Some  time  in  the  afternoon  I  heard  talk 
that  our  skipper — well,  I  won't  mention  names — 
and,  as  it  turned  out  in  the  end,  everyone  was 
implicated.  Anyhow,  at  six  o'clock  or  there- 
abouts the  gig  was  ordered  out,  and  every  blessed 
officer  on  board  went  ashore  in  her  ;  which  was 
■clean  contrary  to  regulations,  of  course,  but  there 
happened  to  be  a  Cinematograph  Show  they  all 
wanted  to  see  at  the  big  music  hall — some  prize- 
fight or  other.    I  don't  set  much  store  by  prize-fights 

224 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 

for  my  part,  and  living  pictures  give  me  the  headache  : 
so,  to  salve  everybody's  conscience,  I  was  left  in  sole 
charge  of  the  ship. 

"  Everything  went  smooth  as  a  buttered  cake 
until  about  nine  o'clock,  when  the  wind,  that  had 
been  dying  down  all  the  time,  suddenly  flew  west  and 
began  to  gather  strength  hand  over  fist.  ...  I 
never,  not  being  a  seaman,  could  have  believed — till 
I  saw  and  felt  it — the  change  that  came  over 
Plymouth  Sound  in  the  space  of  one  half-hour.  The 
gig  had  been  ordered  again  for  nine-thirty,  to  pull 
to  the  Barbican  Steps  and  be  ready  at  ten  to  bring 
the  officers  on  board.  But  before  nine-thirty  I  began 
to  have  my  serious  doubts  about  sending  her.  It 
was  just  as  well  I  had. 

"  For  by  nine-forty-five  it  was  blowing  a  real  gale, 
and  by  ten  o'clock  something  like  a  hurricane.  Just 
then,  to  top  my  terror,  Master  Link  Andrew  came 
aft  to  me — the  wind  seemed  to  blow  him  along — 
and  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Wilkins,'  said  he, 
'  but  in  my  opinion  she  's  dragging.' 

"  Just  think  of  it,  sir  !  There  was  I,  sole  in  charge 
of  a  hundred  boys  or  so,  and  knowing  no  more  what 
to  do  than  the  ship's  cat.  .  .  .  She  was  dragging, 
too  ;  sagging  foot  by  foot  in  towards  the  dark  of 
Jennycliff  Bay. 

'  If  you  '11  take  a  word  from  me,  sir,'  said  Link, 
'  we  'd  best  up  sail  and  get  out  of  this.' 

"  '  What  about  the  other  anchor  ?  '  I 
suggested. 

225 
15 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  '  Try  it  if  you  like,'  said  he.  '  In  my  belief  it 
won't  hold  any  more  than  a  tin  mustard  pot.' 

"  Nor  did  it,  when  we  let  go.  He  came  back  after 
a  few  minutes  from  the  darkness  forward.  '  No  go,' 
said  he.    '  Nothing  to  do  but  slip  and  clear.' 

"  There  was  no  question,  either,  that  he  spoke 
sense.  '  But  where  ?  '  I  shouted  at  him.  '  Drake's 
Island  ?     .     .     .    And  who  's  to  do  it,  even  so  ?  ' 

"  '  The  anchorage  is  crowded  under  Drake's 
Island,'  he  shouted  back.  '  It 's  the  devil-among- 
the-tailors  we  'd  play  there,  if  we  ever  fetched. 
.    .    .    Breakwater  's  no  shelter  either.' 

"  He  seemed  to  whistle  to  himself  for  a  moment ; 
and  the  next  I  heard  him  yell  out  sharply  to  the 
boys  forward  to  tumble  on  the  mainsail,  strip  her 
covers  off,  double-reef  and  hoist  her.  He  took 
command  from  that  moment.  While  a  score  of 
them  flew  to  tackle  this  job,  he  beat  his  way  forward 
and  called  on  another  lot  to  get  out  the  staysail. 
Back  he  ran  again,  cursing  and  calling  on  all  and 
sundry  to  look  smart.  Next  he  was  at  my  side 
ordering  me  to  unlash  the  wheel  and  stand  by. 
'  It  's  touch-and-go,  sir.' 

"  '  Hadn't  we  better  send  up  a  flare  ?  '  I  suggested 
feebly. 

"  '  Flare  your  bloomin'  grandmother  !  '  From 
this  moment  I  regret  to  say  that  Link  Andrew 
treated  me  with  contempt.  He  next  ordered  a  dozen 
small  boys  aloft,  to  reef  and  set  her  upper  square-sail. 
When  I  urged  that  it  was  as  good  as  asking  them  to 

226 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 

commit  suicide,  he  cursed  me  openly.  '  Drown  the 
poor  pups,  will  I  ?  I  thought — damn  you  all ! — you 
laid  yourselves  out  to  breed  seamen  !  You  say  you 
do,  at  prize-givings  !  '  He  ran  forward  again  to  get 
the  hawsers  buoyed  before  slipping  them. 

"  I  never  remember  a  sound  more  sickening  to  the 
stomach  than  those  chains  made  as  they  ran  out 
through  the  hawse  holes.  The  one  mistake  Link 
committed  was  in  ordering  the  upper  square-sail 
to  be  reefed.  By  the  mercy  of  God  not  a  child  was 
blown  off  the  yards  in  that  operation  ;  yet  it  was 
no  sooner  concluded  than,  having  by  this  time 
found  a  megaphone,  he  shouted  up  to  them  to  undo 
their  work  and  shake  out  the  reef. 

"  '  That 's  madness  !  '  I  yelled  from  the  wheel, 
where  I  clung  dripping,  blindly  pressing  down  the 
spokes  and  easing  them  as  he  checked  me.  '  Look 
to  leeward,  you  blighter  !  '  he  yelled  back. 

"  The  ship  had  payed  off  slowly,  and  while  she 
gathered  way,  was  drifting  straight  down  upon  an 
Italian  barque  that  two  hours  ago  had  lain  more 
than  a  cable's  length  from  us.  ...  I  thought 
our  lower  yard — we  heeled  so — would  have  smacked 
against  her  bowsprit-end  ;  and  from  the  outcries 
on  board  the  Italian  I  rather  fancy  her  crew  expected 
it.  But  we  shaved  her  by  a  yard  or  so,  as  Link 
pushed  me  away  from  the  wheel  and  took  charge. 
A  moment  later  she  had  dropped  behind  us  into  the 
night,  and  we  were  surging  in  full-tilt  for  Plymouth, 
heaving  over  at  the  Lord  knows  what  angle. 

227 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  But  we  were  off ;  we  were  clear  ;  and,  strange 
to  say,  the  worst  of  it  was  over.  The  wind  was 
worsening,  if  anything,  and  we  continued  to  drive 
at  a  frightful  angle.  Now  and  again  we  slanted  to 
a  squall  that  fairly  dipped  us  till  the  sea  poured 
half-way  across  her  decks.  As  I  staggered  forward 
— clutching  at  anything  handy — to  assure  myself 
that  none  of  the  boys  had  been  flung  off  the  fore-yard 
and  overboard,  I  heard  a  sea  burst  the  starboard 
bulwarks,  and  in  another  moment,  while  I  yet 
wondered  if  the  sound  came  from  something  parting 
aloft,  with  a  '  Wa-ay-oh  !  '  Link  had  put  over  her 
helm,  and  the  suddenly  altered  slant  flung  me  into 
the  scuppers,  where  I  dropped  after  taking  a  knock 
against  the  standing  rigging,  the  mark  of  which 
I  shall  carry  on  my  forehead  till  I  die. 

"  By  this  time,  sir,  I  was  pretty  well  dazed. 
I  forget  if  it  was  in  a  couple  of  short  tacks,  or  in 
three,  that  we  fetched  Picklecombe  Point  on  the 
western  side.  Then  we  put  about  on  a  long  tack 
that  carried  us  well  outside  the  breakwater  and 
came  in  for  Cawsand  Bay  and  safety.  On  this  last 
fetch  Link  kicked  me  up  and  gave  me  the  wheel 
again,  while  he  went  forward  to  hunt  up  the  spare 
anchor. 

"  We  brought  up,  well  in  shelter,  at  something 
before  two  in  the  morning,  not  a  hand  lost  !  Before 
anyone  was  allowed  to  turn  in.  Link  had  every  sail 
stowed  and  covered — '  for  the  honour  of  the  blasted 
ship,'  as  he  put  it. 

228 


THE    HONOUR    OF    THE    SHIP 

"  The  skipper  and  his  precious  lot  came  aboard 
next  day  not  long  before  noon,  and  after  a  wholesome 
scare.  It  seems  they  were  late,  and  all  pretty  so-so 
by  the  time  they  reached  the  Barbican  Steps  ;  and, 
let  be  that  there  was  no  boat  for  them,  the  water- 
men one  and  all  declined  to  take  them  off  in  any 
such  weather.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  doss  the  night 
ashore,  which  they  did.  But  I  wouldn't  give  much 
for  their  feelings  next  morning  when  they  put  off 
and,  lo  !  there  was  no  Swallow  in  the  Merchant 
Shipping  Anchorage.  In  Cawsand  Bay,  you  under- 
stand, we  were  well  hidden  by  the  land,  and  it  cost 
them  at  least  a  couple  of  hours  to  guess  our 
whereabouts. 

"  Long  as  the  time  was,  it  wasn't  enough  to  wear 
out  the  effects  of  the — well,  the  Cinematograph.  A 
yellower  set,  or  a  bluer  in  the  gills,  you  never  set  eyes 
on.  They  came  aboard,  and  the  skipper,  having 
made  some  inquiries  of  me,  called  up  Link,  cleared 
his  throat  quite  in  the  old  approved  style,  and 
began  to  make  a  speech. 

"  Link  cut  it  short. 

"  '  All  right,  my  precious  swine  !  Now  step  below 
and  wash  off  the  traces.  If  you  behave  pretty, 
maybe  I  '11  not  report  you.' " 


229 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 


VIII 

"  That  finished  the  lot,"  wound  up  the  School- 
master. "  There  was  no  answer  to  it,  if  you  come 
to  think." 

"  And  Link  never  told  ?  " 

"  Never  a  word,  sir.  Nor  did  I.  But  the  story- 
leaked  out  somehow,  and  it  gave  the  Commander 
the  whip-hand  of  his  Committee,  to  ship  a  new  set 
of  officers.  Ship  and  tender,  sir,  the  Egeria  nowadays 
is  something  to  be  proud  of.  But  for  my  part  I  don't 
go  on  any  more  of  these  summer  cruises.  The  open 
sea  never  suited  my  stomach,  and  I  prefer  a  walk  for 
my  holiday." 


230 


Lieutenant   Lapenotiere 


The  night  porter  at  the  Admiralty  had  been  sleeping 
in  his  chair.  He  was  red-eyed  and  wore  his  livery 
coat  buttoned  at  random.  He  grumbled  to  himself 
as  he  opened  the  great  door. 

He  carried  a  glass-screened  candle,  and  held  it 
somewhat  above  the  level  of  his  forehead — which 
was  protuberant  and  heavily  pock-marked.  Under 
the  light  he  peered  out  at  the  visitor,  who  stood 
tall  and  stiff,  with  uniform  overcoat  buttoned  to  the 
chin,  between  the  Ionic  pillars  of  the  portico. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  " 

"  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere,  of  the  Pickle  schooner 
— with  despatches." 

"  Despatches  ?  "  echoed  the  night  porter.  Out 
beyond  the  screen  of  masonry  that  shut  off  the  Board 
of  Admiralty's  fore-court  from  Whitehall,  one  of  the 
tired  post-horses  started  blowing  through  its  nostrils 
on  this  foggy  night. 

"  From  Admiral  Collingwood — Mediterranean  Fleet 
off  Cadiz — sixteen  days,"  answered  the  visitor  curtly. 
"  Is  everyone  abed  ?•  " 

"  Admiral  Collingwood  ?     Why  Admiral  Colling- 

231 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

wood  ?  "  The  night  porter  fell  back  a  pace,  opening 
the  door  a  trifle  wider.  "  Good  God,  sir  !  You  don't 
say  as  how " 

"  You  can  fetch  down  a  Secretary  or  someone, 
I  hope  ?  '  said  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere,  quickly 
stepping  past  him  into  the  long  dim  hall.  "  My 
despatches  are  of  the  first  importance.  I  have 
posted  up  from  Falmouth  without  halt  but  for 
relays." 

As  the  man  closed  the  door,  he  heard  his  post-boy 
of  the  last  relay  slap  one  of  the  horses  encouragingly 
before  heading  home  to  stable.  The  chaise  wheels 
began  to  move  on  the  cobbles. 

"  His  Lordship  himself  will  see  you,  sir.  Of  that 
I  make  no  doubt,"  twittered  the  night  porter, 
fumbling  with  the  bolt.  "  There  was  a  terrible 
disturbance,  back  in  July,  when  Captain  Bettesworth 
arrived — not  so  late  as  this,  to  be  sure,  but  towards 
midnight — and  they  waited  till  morning,  to  carry  up 
the  despatches  with  his  Lordship's  chocolate. 
Thankful  was  I  next  day  not  to  have  been  on  duty 
at  the  time    .    .    .    If  you  will  follow  me,  sir ,: 

Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  had  turned  instinctively 
towards  a  door  on  the  right.  It  admitted  to  the 
Waiting  Room,  and  there  were  few  officers  in  the 
service  who  did  not  know — and  only  too  well — that 
Chamber  of  Hope  Deferred. 

"  No,  sir  .  .  .  this  way,  if  you  please,"  the  night 
porter  corrected  him,  and  opened  a  door  on  the  left. 
"  The  Captains'  Room,"  he  announced,  passing  in  and 

232 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

steering  for  the  chimney-shelf,  on  which  stood  a  pair 
of  silver  sconces  each  carrying  three  wax  candles. 
These  he  took  down,  lit  and  replaced.  "  Ah,  sir  ! 
Many  's  the  time  I  've  showed  Lord  Nelson  himself 
into  this  room,  in  the  days  before  Sir  Horatio,  and 
even  after.     And  you  were  savin' " 

"  I  said  nothing." 

The  man  moved  to  the  door  ;  but  halted  there  and 
came  back,  as  though  in  his  own  despite. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  sir  .  .  .  Half  a  guinea  he  used 
to  give  me,  regular.  But  the  last  time — and  hard  to 
believe  'twas  little  more  than  a  month  ago — he  halts 
on  his  way  out,  and  says  he,  searchin'  awkward-like  in 
his  breeches'  pocket  with  his  left  hand.  '  Ned,'  says 
he,  '  my  old  friend  ' — aye,,  sir,  his  old  friend  he  called 
me — *  Ned,'  says  he,  pullin'  out  a  fistful  o'  gold,  '  my 
old  friend,'  says  he,  '  I  '11  compound  with  you  for  two 
guineas,  this  bein'  the  last  time  you  may  hold  the 
door  open  for  me,  in  or  out.  But  you  must  pick  'em 
out,'  says  he,  spreadin'  his  blessed  fingers  with  the 
gold  in  'em  :  '  for  a  man  can't  count  money  who  's  lost 
his  right  flapper.'  Those  were  his  words,  sir.  '  Old 
friend,'  he  called  me,  in  that  way  of  his. 

Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  pointed  to  his  left  arm. 
Around  the  sleeve  a  black  scarf  was  knotted. 

"  Dead,  sir,"  the  night  porter  hushed  his 
voice. 

"  Dead,"  echoed  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere,  staring 
at  the  Turkey  carpet,  of  which  the  six  candles, 
gaining    strength,    barely    illumined    the    pattern. 

233 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  Dead,  at  the  top  of  victory;  a  great  victory.  Go  : 
fetch  somebody  down." 

The  night  porter  shuffled  off.  Lieutenant  Lapeno- 
tiere,  erect  and  sombre,  cast  a  look  around  the 
apartment,  into  which  he  had  never  before  been 
admitted.  The  candles  lit  up  a  large  painting — a 
queer  bird's-eye  view  of  Venice.  Other  pictures, 
dark  and  bituminous,  decorated  the  panelled  walls 
— portraits  of  dead  admirals,  a  sea-piece  or  two,  some 
charts  .  .  .  This  was  all  he  discerned  out  in  the 
dim  light ;  and  in  fact  he  scanned  the  walls,  the 
furniture  of  the  room,  inattentively.  His  stomach 
was  fasting,  his  head  light  with  rapid  travel ;  above 
all,  he  had  a  sense  of  wonder  that  all  this  should 
be  happening  to  him.  For,  albeit  a  distinguished 
officer,  he  was  a  modest  man,  and  by  habit  con- 
sidered himself  of  no  great  importance  ;  albeit  a 
brave  man,  too,  he  shrank  at  the  thought  of  the 
message  he  carried — a  message  to  explode  and  shake 
millions  of  men  in  a  confusion  of  wild  joy  or  grief. 

For  about  the  tenth  time  in  those  sixteen  days  it 
seemed  to  burst  and  escape  in  an  actual  detonation, 
splitting  his  head — there,  as  he  waited  in  the  strange 
room  where  never  a  curtain  stirred  ...  It  was 
a  trick  his  brain  played  him,  repeating,  echoing  the 
awful  explosion  of  the  French  seventy-four  Achille, 
which  had  blown  up  towards  the  close  of  the  battle. 
When  the  ship  was  ablaze  and  sinking,  his  own  crew 
had  put  off  in  boats  to  rescue  the  Frenchmen,  at 
close  risk  of  their  own  lives,  for  her  loaded  guns,  as 

234 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

they  grew  red-hot,  went  off  at  random  among 
rescuers  and  rescued    .     .     . 

As  had  happened  before  when  he  felt  this  queer 
shock,  his  mind  travelled  back  and  he  seemed  to  hear 
the  series  of  discharges  running  up  at  short  intervals 
to  the  great  catastrophe  ...  To  divert  his 
thoughts,  he  turned  to  study  the  view  of  Venice  above 
the  chimney-piece  .  .  .  and  on  a  sudden  faced 
about  again. 

He  had  a  sensation  that  someone  was  in  the  room 
— someone  standing  close  behind  him. 

But  no  .  .  .  For  the  briefest  instant  his  eyes 
rested  on  an  indistinct  shadow — his  own  perhaps, 
cast  by  the  candle-light  ?  Yet  why  should  it  lie 
lengthwise  there,  shaped  like  a  coffin,  on  the  dark 
polished  table  that  occupied  the  middle  of  the  room  ? 

The  answer  was  that  it  did  not.  Before  he  could 
rub  his  eyes  it  had  gone.  Moreover,  he  had  turned  to 
recognise  a  living  being  .  .  .  and  no  living  person 
was  in  the  room,  unless  by  chance  (absurd  supposi- 
tion) one  were  hidden  behind  the  dark  red  window 
curtains. 

"  Recognise  "  may  seem  a  strange  word  to  use  ; 
but  here  had  lain  the  strangeness  of  the  sensation — 
that  the  someone  standing  there  was  a  friend, 
waiting  to  be  greeted.  It  was  with  eagerness  and  a 
curious  warmth  of  the  heart  that  Lieutenant 
Lapenotiere  had  faced  about — upon  nothing. 

He  continued  to  stare  in  a  puzzled  way  at  the 
window  curtains,  when  a  voice  by  the  door  said — 

235 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

"  Good  evening  ! — or  perhaps,  to  be  correct,  good 
morning  !    You  are  Mr. " 

"  Lapenotiere,"  answered  the  Lieutenant,  who  had 
turned  sharply.  The  voice — a  gentleman's  and 
pleasantly  modulated — was  not  one  he  knew  ;  nor 
did  he  recognise  the  speaker — a  youngish,  shrewd- 
looking  man,  dressed  in  civilian  black,  with  knee- 
breeches.    "  Lapenotiere — of  the  Pickle  schooner." 

"  Yes,  yes — the  porter  bungled  your  name  badly, 
but  I  guessed.  Lord  Barham  will  see  you  personally. 
He  is,  in  fact,  dressing  with  all  haste  at  this  moment 
.  .  .  I  am  his  private  secretary,"  explained  the 
shrewd-looking  gentleman  in  his  quiet,  business-like 
voice.    "  Will  you  come  with  me  upstairs  ?  " 

Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  followed  him.  At  the  foot 
of  the  great  staircase  the  secretary  turned. 

"  I  may  take  it,  sir,  that  we  are  not  lightly  dis- 
turbing his  Lordship, — who  is  an  old  man." 

"  The  news  is  of  great  moment,  sir.  Greater  could 
scarcely  be." 

The  secretary  bent  his  head.  As  they  went  up  the 
staircase  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  looked  back  and 
caught  sight  of  the  night  porter  in  the  middle  of  the 
hall,  planted  there  and  gazing  up,  following  their 
ascent. 

On  the  first-floor  landing  they  were  met  by  a  truly 
ridiculous  spectacle.  There  emerged  from  a  doorway 
on  the  left  of  the  wide  corridor  an  old  gentleman  clad 
in  nightcap,  nightshirt  and  bedroom  slippers, 
buttoning    his    breeches    and    cursing    vigorously ; 

236 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

while  close  upon  him  followed  a  valet  with  dressing- 
gown  on  one  arm,  waistcoat  and  wig  on  the  other, 
vainly  striving  to  keep  pace  with  his  master's 
impatience. 

"  The  braces,  my  lord — your  Lordship  has  them 
fore-part  behind,  if  I  may  suggest " 

"  Damn  the  braces  !  "  swore  the  old  gentleman. 
"  Where  is  he  ?  Hi,  Tylney  !  "  as  he  caught  sight 
of  the  secretary.  "  Where  are  we  to  go  ?  My  room, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  The  fire  is  out  there,  my  lord  .  .  .  Tis  past 
three  in  the  morning.  But  after  sending  word  to 
awake  you,  I  hunted  round  and  by  good  luck  found 
a  plenty  of  promising  embers  in  the  Board  Room 
grate.  On  top  of  these  I  've  piled  what  remained  of 
my  own  fire,  and  Dobson  has  set  a  lamp  there ' 

"  You  've  been  devilish  quick,  Tylney.  Dressed 
like  a  buck  you  are,  too  !  " 

"  Your  Lordship's  wig,"  suggested  the  valet. 

"  Damn  the  wig  !  "  Lord  Barham  snatched  it  and 
attempted  to  stick  it  on  top  of  his  nightcap,  damned 
the  nightcap,  and,  plucking  it  off,  flung  it  to  the 
man. 

"  I  happened  to  be  sitting  up  late,  my  lord,  over 
the  Molns  papers,"  said  Mr.  Secretary  Tylney. 

"  Ha  ?  "  Then,  to  the  valet,  "  The  dressing-gown 
there  !     Don't  fumble  !     ...     So  this  is  Captain 


"  Lieutenant,   sir,   Lapenotiere,    commanding  the 
Pickle  schooner." 

237 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

The  Lieutenant  saluted. 

"  From  the  Fleet,  my  lord — off  Cadiz  ;  or  rather, 
off  Cape  Trafalgaro." 

He  drew  the  sealed  despatch  from  an  inner  breast- 
pocket and  handed  it  to  the  First  Lord. 

"  Here,  step  into  the  Board  Room  .  .  .  Where 
the  devil  are  my  spectacles  ?  "  he  demanded  of  the 
valet,  who  had  sprung  forward  to  hold  open  the  door. 

Evidently  the  Board  Room  had  been  but  a  few 
hours  ago  the  scene  of  a  large  dinner-party.  Glasses, 
dessert-plates,  dishes  of  fruit,  decanters  empty  and 
half  empty,  cumbered  the  great  mahogany  table  as 
dead  and  wounded,  guns  and  tumbrils,  might  a  battle- 
field. Chairs  stood  askew  ;  crumpled  napkins  lay 
as  they  had  been  dropped  or  tossed,  some  on  the 
floor,  others  across  the  table  between  the  dishes. 

"  Looks  cosy,  eh  ?  "  commented  the  First  Lord. 
"  Maggs,  set  a  screen  around  the  fire,  and  look 
about  for  a  decanter  and  some  clean  glasses." 

He  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  reviving  fire,  and 
glanced  at  the  cover  of  the  despatch  before  breaking 
its  seal. 

"  Nelson's  handwriting  ?  "  he  asked.  It  was  plain 
that  his  old  eyes,  unaided  by  spectacles,  saw  the 
superscription  only  as  a  blur. 

"  No,  my  lord  :  Admiral  Collingwood's,"  said 
Lieutenant  Lapenotiere,  inclining  his  head. 

Old  Lord  Barham  looked  up  sharply.  His  wig  sat 
awry,  he  made  a  ridiculous  figure  in  his  hastily- 
donned  garments.    Yet  he  did  not  lack  dignity. 

238 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

"  Why  Collingwood  ?  "  he  asked,  his  fingers 
breaking  the  seal.    "  God  !  you  don't  tell  me " 

"  Lord  Nelson  is  dead,  sir." 

"  Dead — dead  ?  .  .  .  Here,  Tylney — you  read 
what  it  says.  Dead  ?  .  .  .  No,  damme,  let  the 
captain  tell  his  tale.    Briefly,  sir." 

"  Briefly,  sir — Lord  Nelson  had  word  of  Admiral 
Villeneuve  coming  out  of  the  Straits,  and  engaged  the 
combined  fleets  off  Cape  Trafalgaro.  They  were  in 
single  line,  roughly ;  and  he  bore  down  in  two 
columns,  and  cut  off  their  van  under  Dumanoir. 
This  was  at  dawn  or  thereabouts,  and  by  five  o'clock 
the  enemy  was  destroyed." 

"  How  many  prizes  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  precisely,  my  lord.  The  word  went, 
when  I  was  signalled  aboard  the  Vice-Admiral's 
flag-ship,  that  either  fifteen  or  sixteen  had  struck. 
My  own  men  then  engaged,  at  the  time,  in  rescuing 
the  crew  of  a  French  seventy-four  that  had  blown  up  ; 
and  I  was  too  busy  to  count,  had  counting  been 
possible.  One  or  two  of  my  officers  maintain  to  me 
that  our  gains  were  higher.  But  the  despatch  will 
tell,  doubtless." 

"  Aye,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  Read,  Tylney.  Don't  sit 
there  clearing  your  throat,  but  read,  man  alive  !  " 
And  yet  it  appeared  that  while  the  Secretary  was 
willing  enough  to  read,  the  First  Lord  had  no 
capacity,  as  yet,  to  listen.  Into  the  very  first  sentence 
he  broke  with — 

"  No,  wait  a  minute.    '  Dead,'  d'  ye  say  ?     .    .     . 

239 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

Lieutenant,  pour  yourself  a  glass  of  wine  and  tell  us 
first  how  it  happened." 

Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  could  not  tell  very  clearly. 
He  had  twice  been  summoned  to  board  the  Royal 
Sovereign — the  first  time  to  receive  the  command  to 
hold  himself  ready.  It  was  then  that,  coming  along- 
side the  great  ship,  he  had  read  in  all  the  officers' 
faces  an  anxiety  hard  to  reconcile  with  the  evident 
tokens  of  victory  around  them.  At  once  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  the  Admiral  had  fallen,  and  he 
put  the  question  to  one  of  the  lieutenants — to  be 
told  that  Lord  Nelson  had  indeed  been  mortally 
wounded  and  could  not  live  long  ;  but  that  he  must 
be  alive  yet,  and  conscious,  since  the  Victory  was  still 
signalling  orders  to  the  Fleet. 

"  I  think,  my  lord,"  said  he,  "  that  Admiral 
Collingwood  must  have  been  doubtful,  just  then, 
what  responsibility  had  fallen  upon  him,  or  how  soon 
it  might  fall.  He  had  sent  for  me  to  '  stand  by  '  so 
to  speak.  He  was  good  enough  to  tell  me  the  news 
as  it  had  reached  him " 

Here  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere,  obeying  the  order  to 
fill  his  glass,  let  spill  some  of  the  wine  on  the  table. 
The  sight  of  the  dark  trickle  on  the  mahogany 
touched  some  nerve  of  the  brain  :  he  saw  it  widen  into 
a  pool  of  blood,  from  which,  as  they  picked  up  a 
shattered  seaman  and  bore  him  below,  a  lazy 
stream  crept  across  the  deck  of  the  flag-ship 
towards  the  scuppers.  He  moved  his  feet,  as  he 
had  moved  them  then,  to  be  out  of  the  way    of 

240 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOT1ERE 

it :    but  recovered  himself  in  another  moment   and 
went  on — 

"  He  told  me,  my  lord,  that  the  Victory  after 
passing  under  the  Buccntaure's  stern,  and  so  raking 
her  that  she  was  put  out  of  action,  or  almost,  fell 
alongside  the  Redoutable.  There  was  a  long  swell 
running,  with  next  to  no  wind,  and  the  two  ships 
could  hardly  have  cleared  had  they  tried.  At  any 
rate,  they  hooked,  and  it  was  then  a  question  which 
could  hammer  the  harder.  The  Frenchman  had 
filled  his  tops  with  sharp-shooters,  and  from  one  of 
these  —  the  mizen-top,  I  believe  —  a  musket-ball 
struck  down  the  Admiral.  He  was  walking  at  the 
time  to  and  fro  on  a  sort  of  gangway  he  had  caused 
to  be  planked  over  his  cabin  sky-light,  between  the 
wheel  and  the  ladder-way  .  .  .  Admiral  Colling- 
wood  believed  it  had  happened  about  half-past 
one    .    .    ." 

"  Sit  down,  man,  and  drink  your  wine,"  com- 
manded the  First  Lord  as  the  despatch-bearer  swayed 
with  a  sudden  faintness. 

"  It  is  nothing,  my  lord " 

But  it  must  have  been  a  real  swoon,  or  something 
very  like  it  :  for  he  recovered  to  find  himself  lying 
in  an  arm-chair.  He  heard  the  Secretary's  voice 
reading  steadily  on  and  on  .  .  .  Also  they  must 
have  given  him  wine,  for  he  awoke  to  feel  the 
warmth  of  it  in  his  veins  and  coursing  about  his 
heart.  But  he  was  weak  yet,  and  for  the  moment 
well  content  to  lie  still  and  listen. 


241 
16 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Resting  there  and  listening,  he  was  aware  of  two 
sensations  that  alternated  within  him,  chasing  each 
other  in  and  out  of  his  consciousness.  He  felt  all  the 
while  that  he,  John  Richards  Lapenotiere,  a  junior 
officer  in  His  Majesty's  service,  was  assisting  in  one 
of  the  most  momentous  events  in  his  country's 
history  ;  and  alone  in  the  room  with  these  two  men, 
he  felt  it  as  he  had  never  begun  to  feel  it  amid  the 
smoke  and  roar  of  the  actual  battle.  He  had  seen 
the  dead  hero  but  half  a  dozen  times  in  his  life  :  he 
had  never  been  honoured  by  a  word  from  him  :  but 
like  every  other  naval  officer,  he  had  come  to  look  up 
to  Nelson  as  to  the  splendid  particular  star  among 
commanders.  There  was  greatness  :  there  was  that 
which  lifted  men  to  such  deeds  as  write  man's  name 
across  the  firmament.  And,  strange  to  say,  Lieutenant 
Lapenotiere  recognised  something  of  it  in  this  queer 
old  man,  in  dressing-gown  and  ill-fitting  wig,  who 
took  snuff  and  interrupted  now  with  a  curse  and 
anon  with  a  "  bravo  !  "  asjthe  secretary  read.  He 
was  absurd  :  but  he  was  no  common  man,  this  Lord 
Barham.  He  had  something  of  the  ineffable  aura  of 
greatness. 

But  in  the  lieutenant's  brain,  across  this  serious, 
even  awful  sense  of  the  moment  and  of  its  meaning, 
there  played  a  curious  .secondary  sense  that  the 
moment  was  not — that  what  was  happening  before  his 
eyes  had  either  happened  before  or  was  happening 
in  some  vacuum  in  which  past,  "present,  future  and 
the  ordinary  divisions  of  time  had  lost  their  bearings. 

242 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

The  great  twenty-four-hour  clock  at  the  end  of  the 
Board  Room,  ticking  on  and  on  while  the  Secretary 
read,  wore  an  unfamiliar  face  .  .  .  Yes,  time  had 
gone  wrong,  somehow :  and  the  events  of  the 
passage  home  to  Falmouth,  of  the  journey  up  to  the 
doors  of  the  Admiralty,  though  they  ran  on  a  chain, 
had  no  intervals  to  be  measured  by  a  clock,  but 
followed  one  another  like  pictures  on  a  wall.  He 
saw  the  long,  indigo-coloured  swell  thrusting  the 
broken  ships  shoreward.  He  felt  the  wind  freshening 
as  it  southered  and  he  left  the  fleet  behind  :  he 
watched  their  many  lanterns  as  they  sank  out  of 
sight,  then  the  glow  of  flares  by  the  light  of  which 
dead-tired  men  were  repairing  damages,  cutting  away 
wreckage.  His  ship  was  wallowing  heavily  now, 
with  the  gale  after  her, — and  now  dawn  was  breaking 
clean  and  glorious  at  the  entrance  of  Mount's  Bay. 
A  fishing  lugger  had  spied  them,  and  lying  in  wait, 
had  sheered  up  close  alongside,  her  crew  bawling  for 
news.  He  had  not  forbidden  his  men  to  call  it  back, 
and  he  could  see  the  fellows'  faces  now,  as  it  reached 
them  from  the  speaking-trumpet  :  "  Great  victory — 
twenty  taken  or  sunk — Admiral  Nelson  killed  !  " 
They  had  guessed  something,  noting  the  Pickle's 
ensign  at  half-mast.  :  yet  as  they  took  in  the  purport 
of  the  last  three  words,  these  honest  fishermen  had 
turned  and  stared  at  one  another  ;  and  without 
one  answering  word,  the  lugger  had  been  headed 
straight  back  to  the  mainland. 

So  it  had  been  at  Falmouth.    A  ship  entering  port 


243 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

has  a  thousand  eyes  upon  her,  and  the  Pickle's  errand 
could  not  be  hidden.  The  news  seemed  in  some 
mysterious  way  to  have  spread  even  before  he 
stepped  ashore  there  on  the  Market  Strand.  A  small 
crowd  had  collected,  and,  as  he  passed  through  it, 
many  doffed  their  hats.  There  was  no  cheering  at 
all — no,  not  for  this,  the  most  glorious  victory  of 
the  war — outshining  even  the  Nile  or  Howe's  First 
of  June. 

He  had  set  his  face  as  he  walked  to  the  inn.  But 
the  news  had  flown  before  him,  and  fresh  crowds 
gathered  to  watch  him  off.  The  post-boys  knew 
.  .  .  and  they  told  the  post-boys  at  the  next  stage, 
and  the  next — Bodmin  and  Plymouth — not  to 
mention  the  boatmen  at  Torpoint  Ferry.  But  the 
country-side  did  not  know ;  not  the  labourers 
gathering  in  cider  apples  heaped  under  Devon  apple 
trees,  nor,  next  day,  the  sportsmen  banging  off  guns 
at  the  partridges  around  Salisbury.  The  slow,  jolly 
life  of  England  on  either  side  of  the  high-road  turned 
leisurely  as  a  wagon-wheel  on  its  axle,  while  between 
the  hedgerows,  past  school-houses,  church-towers  and 
through  the  cobbled  streets  of  market  towns,  he  had 
sped  and  rattled  with  Collingwood's  despatch  in  his 
pocket.  The  news  had  reached  London  with  him. 
His  last  postboys  had  carried  it  to  their  stables,  and 
from  stable  to  tavern.  To-morrow — to-day,  rather 
— in  an  hour  or  two — all  the  bells  of  London  would 
be  ringing,  or  tolling !  .     .     . 

"  He  's  as  tired  as  a  dog,"  said  the  voice  of  the 

244 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

Secretary.  "  Seems  almost  a  shame  to  waken 
him." 

The  lieutenant  opened  his  eyes  and  jumped  to  his 
feet  with  an  apology.  Lord  Barham  had  gone,  and 
the  Secretary  hard  by  was  speaking  to  the  night 
porter,  who  bent  over  the  fire,  raking  it  with  a  poker. 
The  hands  of  the  Queen  Anne  clock  indicated  a 
quarter  to  six. 

"  The  First  Lord  would  like  a  talk  with  you  .  .  . 
later  in  the  day,"  said  Mr.  Tylney  gravely,  smiling 
a  little  these  last  words.  He  himself  was  white  and 
haggard.  "  He  suggested  the  early  afternoon,  say 
half-past  two.  That  will  give  you  time  for  a  round 
sleep  .  .  .  You  might  leave  me  the  name  of  your 
hotel,  in  case  he  should  wish  to  send  for  you  before 
that  hour." 

"  The  Swan  with  Two  Necks,  Lad  Lane,  Cheap- 
side,"  said  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere. 

He  knew  little  of  London,  and  gave  the  name  of 
the  hostelry  at  which,  many  years  ago,  he  had 
alighted  from  a  West-country  coach  with  his  box 
and  midshipman's  kit  ...  A  moment  later  he 
found  himself  wondering  if  it  still  existed  as  a  house 
of  entertainment.     Well,  he  must  go  and  seek  it. 

The  Secretary  shook  hands  with  him,  smiling 
wanly. 

"  Few  men,  sir,  have  been  privileged  to  carry  such 
news  as  you  have  brought  us  to-night." 

"  And  I  went  to  sleep  after  delivering  it,"  said 
Lieutenant  Lapenotiere,  smiling  back. 

245 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

The  night  porter  escorted  him  to  the  hall,  and 
opened  the  great  door  for  him.  In  the  portico  he 
bade  the  honest  man  good-night,  and  stood  for 
a  moment,  mapping  out  in  his  mind  his  way  to  The 
Swan  with  Two  Necks.  He  shivered  slightly, 
after  his  nap,  in  the  chill  of  the  approaching  dawn. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  he  was  aware  of 
a  light  shining,  out  beyond  the  screen  of  the  fore- 
court, and  again  a  horse  blew  through  its  nostrils 
on  the  raw  air. 

"  Lord  !  "  thought  the  lieutenant.  "  That  fool 
of  a  post-boy  cannot  have  mistaken  me  and  waited 
all  this  time  !  " 

He  hurried  out  into  Whitehall.  Sure  enough  a 
chaise  was  drawn  up  there,  and  a  post-boy  stood  by 
the  near  lamp,  conning  a  scrap  of  paper  by  the  light 
of  it.  No,  it  was  a  different  chaise,  and  a  different 
post-boy.  He  wore  the  buff  and  black,  whereas  the 
other  had  worn  the  blue  and  white.  Yet  he  stepped 
forward  confidently,  and  with  something  of  a  smile. 

"  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  ?  '  he  asked,  reaching 
back  and  holding  up  his  paper  to  the  lamp  to  make 
sure  of  the  syllables. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  the  amazed  lieutenant. 

"  I  was  ordered  here — five  forty-five — to  drive  you 
down  to  Merton." 

"  To  Merton  ?  "  echoed  Lieutenant  Lapenotiere, 
his  hand  going  to  his  pocket.  The  post-boy's  smile, 
or  so  much  as  could  be  seen  of  it  by  the  edge  of  the 
lamp,  grew  more  knowing. 

246 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

"  I  ask  no  questions,  sir." 

"  But — but  who  ordered  you  ?  " 

The  post-boy  did  not  observe,  or  disregarded,  his 
bewilderment. 

"  A  Briton  's  a  Briton,  sir,  T  hope  ?  I  ask  no 
questions,  knowing  my  place  .  .  .  But  if  so  be  as 
you  were  to  tell  me  there  's  been  a  great  victory 
"    He  paused  on  this. 

"  Well,  my  man,  you  're  right  so  far,  and  no  harm 
in  telling  you." 

"  Aye,"  chirruped  the  post-boy.  "  When  the  maid 
called  me  up  with  the  order,  and  said  as  how  he  and 
no  other  had  called  with  it " 

"  He  ?  " 

The  fellow  nodded. 

"  She  knew  him  at  once,  from  his  portraits.    Who 

wouldn't  ?     With  his  right  sleeve  pinned  across,  so 

.     And,   said   I,   '  Then   there  's  been   a  real 

victory.     Never  would  you  see  him  back,   unless. 

And  I  was  right,  sir  !  "  he  concluded  triumphantly. 

"  Let  me  see  that  piece  of  paper." 

"  You  '11  let  me  have  it  back,  sir  ?  —  for  a 
memento,"  the  post-boy  pleaded.  Lieutenant 
Lapenotiere  took  it  from  him — a  plain  half-sheet  of 
note-paper  roughly  folded.  On  it  was  scribbled 
in  pencil,  back  hand-wise,  "  Lt.  Lapenotiere. 
Admiralty,  Whitehall.  At  6.30  a.m.,  not  later.  For 
Merton,  Surrey." 

He  folded  the  paper  very  slowly,  and  handed 
it  back  to  the  post-boy. 


247 


MEWS     FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  Very  well,  then.     For  Merton." 

*  *  *  * 

The  house  lay  but  a  very  little  distance  beyond 
"Wimbledon.  Its  blinds  were  drawn  as  Lieutenant 
Lapenotiere  alighted  from  the  chaise  and  went  up 
to  the  modest  porch. 

His  hand  was  on  the  bell-pull.  But  some  pressure 
checked  him  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  ringing.  He 
determined  to  wait  for  a  while  and  turned  away 
towards  the  garden. 

The  dawn  had  just  broken  ;  two  or  three  birds 
were  singing.  It  did  not  surprise — at  any  rate,  it 
did  not  frighten — Lieutenant  Lapenotiere  at  all, 
when,  turning  into  a  short  pleached  alley,  he  looked 
along  it  and  saw  him  advancing. 

— Yes,  him,  with  the  pinned  sleeve,  the  noble, 
seamed,  eager  face.  They  met  as  friends  ...  In 
later  years  the  lieutenant  could  never  remember 
a  word  that  passed,  if  any  passed  at  all.  He  was 
inclined  to  think  that  they  met  and  walked  together 
in  complete  silence,  for  many  minutes.  Yet  he  ever 
maintained  that  they  walked  as  two  friends  whose 
thoughts  hold  converse  without  need  of  words.  He 
was  not  terrified  at  all.  He  ever  insisted,  on  the 
contrary,  that  there  in  the  cold  of  the  breaking  day 
his  heart  was  light  and  warm  as  though  flooded  with 
first  love — not  troubled  by  it,  as  youth  in  first  love 
is  wont  to  be — but  bathed  in  it ;  he,  the  ardent 
young     officer,     bathed    in     a    glow   of    affection, 

248 


LIEUTENANT    LAPENOTIERE 

ennobling,    exalting   him,    making   him    free     of    a 
brotherhood  he  had  never  guessed. 

He  used  also,  in  telling  the  story,  to  scandalise  the 
clergyman  of  his  parish  by  quoting  the  evangelists, 
and  especially  St.  John's  narrative  of  Mary  Magdalen 
at  the  sepulchre. 

For  the  door  of  the  house  opened  at  length  ;  and 
a  beautiful  woman,  scarred  by  knowledge  of  the 
world,  came  down  the  alley,  slowly,  unaware  of  him. 
Then  (said  he),  as  she  approached,  his  hand  went  up 
to  his  pocket  for  the  private  letter  he  carried,  and 
the  shade  at  his  side  left  him  to  face  her  in  the 
daylight. 


24, 


The   Cask  Ashore 

(1807) 


Rum     for     Bond 

At  the  head  of  a  diminutive  creek  of  the  Tamar 
River,  a  little  above  Saltash  on  the  Cornish  shore, 
stands  the  village  of  Botusfleming ;  and  in  early 
summer,  when  its  cherry-orchards  come  into  bloom, 
you  will  search  far  before  finding  a  prettier. 

The  years  have  dealt  gently  with  Botusfleming. 
As  it  is  to-day,  so — or  nearly  so— it  was  on  a  certain 
sunny  afternoon  in  the  year  1807,  when  the  Reverend 
Edward  Spettigew,  Curate -in -Charge,  sat  in  the 
garden  before  his  cottage  and  smoked  his  pipe  while 
he  meditated  a  sermon.  That  is  to  say,  he  intended 
to  meditate  a  sermon.  But  the  afternoon  was 
warm  :  the  bees  hummed  drowsily  among  the  wall- 
flowers and  tulips.  From  the  bench  his  eyes 
followed  the  vale's  descent  between  overlapping 
billows  of  cherry  blossom  to  a  gap  wherein  shone 
the  silver  Tamar— not,  be  it  understood,  the  part 
called   Hamoaze,   where  lay   the  warships  and  the 

251 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

hulks  containing  the  French  prisoners,  but  an  upper 
reach  seldom  troubled  by  shipping. 

Parson  Spettigew  laid  the  book  face-downwards 
on  his  knee  while  his  lips  murmured  a  part  of  the 
text  he  had  chosen  :  '  A  place  of  broad  rivers  and 
streams  .  .  .  wherein  shall  go  no  galley  with 
oars,  neither  shall  gallant  ship  pass  thereby.  .  .  .' 
His  pipe~went  out.  The  book  slipped  from  his  knee 
to  the  ground.     He  slumbered. 

The  garden  gate  rattled,  and  he  awoke  with  a 
start.  Tn  the  pathway  below  him  stood  a  sailor ; 
a  middle-sized,  middle-aged  man,  rigged  out  in  best 
shore-going  clothes — shiny  tarpaulin  hat,  blue  coat 
and  waistcoat,  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  and  white 
duck  trowsers  with  broad-buckled  waistbelt. 

"  Beggin  '  your  Reverence's  pardon,"  began  the 
visitor,  touching  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  then  upon 
second  thoughts  uncovering,  "but  my  name's  J  ope 
— Ben  J  ope." 

"  Eh  ?  .  .  .  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  asked 
Parson  Spettigew,  a  trifle  flustered  at  being  caught 
napping. 

"  —  of  the  Vesoovius  bomb,  bo's'n,"  pursued 
Mr.  Jope,  with  a  smile  that  disarmed  annoyance, 
so  ingenuous  it  was,  so  friendly,  and  withal  so 
respectful :  "  but  paid  off  at  eight  this  morning. 
Maybe  your  Reverence  can  tell  me  whereabouts  to 
find  an  embalmer  in  these  parts  ?  " 

"  A— a  what  ?  " 


252 


THE'  CASK    ASHORE 

"  Embalmer."  Mr.  Jope  chewed  thoughtfully 
for  a  moment  or  two  upon  a  quid  of  tobacco, 
"  Sort  of  party  you  'd  go  to  supposin'  as  you  had  a 
corpse  by  you  and  wanted  to  keep  it  for  a  permanency. 
You  take  a  lot  of  gums  and  spices,  and  first  of  all 
you  lays  out  the  deceased,  and  next " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  Parson  interrupted  hurriedly  ; 
"  I  know  the  process,  of  course." 

"  What  ?  to  practise  it  ?  "  Hope  illumined  Mr. 
Jope's  countenance. 

"  No,  most  certainly  not  .  .  .  But,  my  good 
man, — an  embalmer!  and  at  Botusfleming,  of  all 
places  !  " 

The  sailor's  face  fell.     He  sighed  patiently. 

"  That 's  what  they  said  at  Saltash,  more  or  less. 
I  got  a  sister  living  there — Sarah  Treleaven  her 
name  is — a  widow-woman,  and  sells  fish.  When  I 
called  on  her  this  morning,  '  Embalmer  ?  '  she  said  ; 
'  Go  and  embalm  your  grandmother  !  '  Those 
were  her  words,  and  the  rest  of  Saltash  wasn't 
scarcely  more  helpful.  But,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
while  I  was  searchin',  Bill  Adams  went  for  a  shave, 
and  inside  of  the  barber's  shop  what  should  he  see 
but  a  fair-sized  otter  in  a  glass  case  ?  Bill  began  to 
admire  it,  and  it  turned  out  the  barber  had  stuffed 
the  thing.  Maybe  your  Reverence  knows  the  man  ? 
— '  A.  Grigg  and  Son,'  he  calls  hisself." 

"  Grigg  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure  :  he  stuffed  a  trout 
for  me  last  summer." 

"  What  weight,  makin'  so  bold  ?  " 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  Seven  pounds." 

Mr.   Jope's  face   fell  again. 

"  Well-a-well !  I  dare  say  the  size  don't  matter, 
once  you  've  got  the  knack.  We  've  brought  him 
along,  anyway  ;  and,  what 's  more,  we  've  made  him 
bring  all  his  tools.  By  his  talk,  he  reckons  it  to  be 
a  shavin'  job,  and  we  agreed  to  wait  before  we 
undeceived  him." 

"  But — you'll  excuse  me — I  don't  quite  follow " 

Mr.  Jope  pressed  a  forefinger  mysteriously  to  his 
lip,  then  jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 

"  If  your  Reverence  wouldn'  mind  steppin'  down 
to  the  creek  with  me  ?  "  he  suggested  respectfully. 

Parson  Spettigew  fetched  his  hat,  and  together 
the  pair  descended  the  vale  beneath  the  dropping 
petals  of  the  cherry.  At  the  foot  of  it  they  came  to 
a  creek,  which  the  tide  at  this  hour  had  flooded  and 
almost  overbrimmed.  Hard  by  the  water's  edge, 
backed  by  tall  elms,  stood  a  dilapidated  fish-store, 
and  below  it  lay  a  boat  with  nose  aground  on  a  beach 
of  flat  stones.  Two  men  were  in  the  boat.  The  barber 
— a  slip  of  a  fellow  in  rusty  top  hat  and  suit  of  rusty 
black — sat  in  the  stern-sheets  face  to  face  with  a 
large  cask  ;  a  cask  so  ample  that,  to  find  room  for 
his  knees,  he  was  forced  to  crook  them  at  a  high, 
uncomfortable  angle.  In  the  bows,  boathook  in 
hand,  stood  a  tall  sailor,  arrayed  in  shore-going 
clothes  similar  to  Mr.  Jope's.  His  face  was  long, 
sallow,  and  expressive  of  taciturnity,  and  he  wore 
a  beard — not,   however,   where  beards  are  usually 

254 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

worn,   but    as   a  fringe    beneath    his   clean-shaven 
chin. 

"  Well,  here  we  are !  "  announced  Mr.  Jope 
cheerfully.  "  Your  Reverence  knows  A.  Grigg  and 
Son,  and  the  others  you  can  trust  in  all  weathers  ; 
bein'  William  Adams,  otherwise  Bill,  and  Eli  Tonkin 
— friends  o'   mine  an'   shipmates  both." 

The  tall  seaman  touched  his  hat  by  way  of 
acknowledging  the  introduction. 

"  But — but  I  only  see  one  !  "  protested  Parson 
Spettigew. 

"  This  here  's  Bill  Adams,"  said  Mr.  Jope,  and 
again  the  tall  seaman  touched  his  hat.  "Is  it  Eli 
you're  missin'  ?    He's  in  the  cask." 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  We  '11  hoick  him  up  to  the  store,  Bill,  if  you  're- 
ready  ?  It  looks  a  nice  cool  place.  And  while 
you  're  prizin'  him  open,  I  'd  best  explain  to  his 
Reverence  and  the  barber.  Here,  unship  the  shore- 
plank  ;  and  you,  A.  Grigg  and  Son,  lend  a  hand  to 
heave  .  .  .  Ay,  you  're  right  :  it  weighs  more  'n 
a  trifle  —  bein'  a  quarter-puncheon,  an'  the 
best  proof -spirits.  Tilt  her  this  way  . 
Ready  ?  .  .  .  then  w'y-ho  !  and  away  she 
goes  ! 

With  a  heave  and  a  lurch  that  canted  the  boat 
until  the  water  poured  over  her  gunwale,  the  huge 
tub  was  rolled  overside  into  shallow  water.  The 
recoil,  as  the  boat  righted  herself,  cast  the  small 
barber   off   his   balance,   and   he   fell   back   over   a 

255 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

thwart  with  heels  in  air.  But  before  he  picked  himself 
up,  the  two  seamen,  encouraging  one  another  with 
strange  cries,  had  leapt  out  and  were  trundling  the 
■cask  up  the  beach,  using  the  flats  of  their  hands. 
With  another  w'y-ho  !  and  a  tremendous  lift,  they 
ran  it  up  to  the  turfy  plat, "  whence  Bill  Adams 
steered  it  with  ease  through  the  ruinated  doorway 
of  the  store.  Mr.  J  ope  returned,  smiling  and 
mopping  his  brow. 

"  It  's  this-a-way,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
Parson.  "  Eli  Tonkin  his  name  is,  or  was  ;  and, 
as  he  said,  of  this  parish." 

"  Tonkin  ?  '  queried  the  Parson.  "  There  are 
no  Tonkins  surviving  in  Botusfleming  parish.  The 
last  of  them  was  a  poor  old  widow  I  laid  to  rest 
the  week  after  Christmas." 

"  Belay  there !  .  .  .  Dead,  is  she  ?  " 
Mr.  Jope's  face  exhibited  the  liveliest  disappoint- 
ment. "  And  after  the  surprise  we  'd  planned  for 
her  !  '  he  murmured  ruefully.  "  Hi  !  Bill  !  "  he 
called  to  his  shipmate,  who,  having  stored  the  cask, 
was  returning  to  the  boat. 

"  Wot  is  it  ?  asked  Bill  Adams  inattentively. 
""  Look  here,  where  did  we  stow  the  hammer  an' 
chisel  ?  " 

"  Take  your  head  out  o'  the  boat  an'  listen.  The 
•old  woman  's  dead  !  " 

The  tall  man  absorbed  the  news  slowly. 

"  That  's    a    facer,"    he    said    at    length.     "  But 

maybe   we   can   fix   her   up,    too  ?     I  '11   stand   my 

share." 

256 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

"  She  was  buried  the  week  after  Christmas." 

"  Oh  ?  "  Bill  scratched  his  head.  "  Then  we 
can't — not  very  well." 

"  Times  an'  again  I  've  heard  Eli  talk  of  his 
poor  old  mother,"  said  Mr.  J  ope,  turning  to  the 
Parson.  "  Which  you  '11  hardly  believe  it,  but 
though  I  knowed  him  for  a  Westcountry  man,  'twas 
not  till  the  last  I  larned  what  parish  he  hailed  from. 
It  happened  very  curiously.  Bill,  rout  up  A.  Grigg 
and  Son,  an'  fetch  him  forra'd  here  to  listen.  You  '11 
find  the  tools  underneath  him  in  the  stern-sheets." 

Bill  obeyed,  and  possessing  himself  of  hammer 
and  chisel  lounged  off  to  the  shore.  The  little 
barber  drew  near,  and  stood  at  Mr.  Jope's  elbow. 
His  face  wore  an  unhealthy  pallor,  and  he  smelt 
potently  of  strong  drink. 

"  Brandy  it  is,"  apologised  Mr.  Jope,  observing 
a  slight  contraction  of  the  Parson's  nostril.  "  I 
reckoned  'twould  tauten  him  a  bit  for  what  's 
ahead.  .  .  .  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  it  happened 
very  curiously.  This  day  fortnight  we  were  beatin' 
up  an'  across  the  Bay  o'  Biscay,  after  a  four 
months'  to-an'-fro  game  in  front  of  Toolon  Harbour. 
Blowin'  fresh  it  was,  an'  we  makin'  pretty  poor 
weather  of  it — the  Vesoovius  bein'  a  powerful  wet 
tub,  an'  a  slug  at  the  best  o'  times.  'Tisn'  her 
fault,  you  understand :  aboard  a  bombship 
everything  's  got  to  be  heavy — timbers,  scantling, 
everything  about  her — to  stand  the  concussion. 
What  with  this  an'  her  mortars,  she  sits  pretty  low  ; 

257 
17 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

but  to  make  up  for  it,  what  with  all  this  dead  weight, 
and  bein'  short-sparred,  she  can  carry  all  sail  in  a 
breeze  that  would  surprise  you.  Well,  sir,  for  two 
days  she  'd  been  carryin'  canvas  that  fairly 
smothered  us,  an'  Cap'n  Crang  not  a  man  to  care 
how  we  fared  forra'd,  so  long  the  water  didn' 
reach  aft  to  his  own  quarters.  But  at  last  the  First 
Lootenant,  Mr.  Wapshott,  took  pity  on  us,  and — 
the  Cap'n  bein'  below,  takin'  his  nap  after  dinner — 
sends  the  crew  o'  the  maintop  aloft  to  take  a  reef  in 
the  tops'le.  Poor  Eli  was  one.  Whereby  the  men 
had  scarcely  reached  the  top  afore  Cap'n  Crang 
comes  up  from  his  cabin  an'  along  the  deck,  not 
troublin'  to  cast  an  eye  aloft.  Whereby  he  missed 
what  was  happenin'.  Whereby  he  had  just  come 
abreast  of  the  mainmast,  when — sock  at  his  very 
feet — there  drops  a  man.  'Twas  Eli,  that  had 
missed  his  hold,  an'  dropped  somewhere  on  the 
back  of  his  skull.  '  Hullo  !  '  says  the  Cap'n,  '  an' 
where  the  devil  might  you  come  from  ?  '  Eli  heard 
it,  poor  fellow — an'  says  he,  as  I  lifted  him, 
'  If  you  please,  sir,  from  Botusfleming,  three  miles 
t'other  side  of  Saltash.'  '  Then  you  've  had  a  damn 
quick  passage,'  answers  Cap'n  Crang,  an'  turns  on 
his  heel. 

"  W7ell,  sir,  we  all  agreed  the  Cap'n  might  ha' 
showed  more  feelin',  specially  as  poor  Eli  'd  broke 
the  base  of  his  skull,  an'  by  eight  bells  handed  in  the 
number  of  his  mess.  Five  or  six  of  us  talked  it  over, 
agreein'    as   how    'twasn'    hardly   human,    an'    Eli 

258 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

such  a  good  fellow,  too,  let  alone  bein'  a  decent 
seaman.  Whereby  the  notion  came  to  me  that, 
as  he  'd  come  from  Botusneming — those  bein'  his 
last  words — back  to  Botusfleming  he  should  go, 
an'  on  that  we  cooked  up  a  plan.  Bill  Adams 
being  on  duty  in  the  sick  bay,  there  wasn'  no 
difficulty  in  sewin'  up  a  dummy  in  Eli's  place  ; 
an'  the  dummy,  sir,  nex'  day  we  dooly  committed 
to  the  deep,  Cap'n  Crang  hisself  readin'  the  service. 
The  real  question  was,  what  to  do  with  Eli  ? 
Whereby,  the  purser  and  me  bein'  friends,  I  goes 
to  him  an'  says,  '  Look  here,'  I  says,  '  we  '11  be 
paid  off  in  ten  days  or  so,  an'  there  's  a  trifle  o' 
prize  money,  too.  What  price  '11  you  sell  us  a 
cask  o'  the  ship's  rum — say  a  quarter-puncheon 
for  choice  ?  '  '  What  for  ?  '  says  he.  '  For  shore- 
going  purposes,'  says  I.  '  Bill  Adams  an'  me  got  a 
use  for  it.'  '  Well,'  says  the  purser — a  decent  chap, 
an'  by  name  Wilkins — '  I  'm  an  honest  man,'  says 
he,  'an'  to  oblige  a  friend  you  shall  have  it  at 
store-valuation  rate.  An'  what  's  more,'  said  he, 
'  I  got  the  wind  o'  your  little  game,  an  '11  do  what 
I  can  to  help  it  along ;  for  I  al'ays  liked  the 
deceased,  an'  in  my  opinion  Captain  Crang  behaved 
most  unfeelin'.  You  tell  Bill  to  bring  the  body  to 
me,  an'  there  '11  be  no  more  trouble  about  it  till 
I  hand  you  over  the  cask  at  Plymouth.'  Well,  sir, 
the  man  was  as  good  as  his  word.  We  smuggled  the 
cask  ashore  last  evenin',  an'  hid  it  in  the  woods 
this   side   o'    Mount   Edgcumbe.     This   mornin'    we 

259 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

re-shipped  it  as  you  see.  First  along  we  intended  no 
more  than  just  to  break  the  news  to  Eli's  mother, 
an'  hand  him  over  to  her  ;  but  Bill  reckoned  that  to 
hand  him  over,  cask  an'  all,  would  look  careless  ; 
for  (as  he  said)  'twasn'  as  if  you  could  bury  'im  in 
a  cask.  We  allowed  your  Reverence  would  draw 
the  line  at  that,  though  we  hadn'  the  pleasure  o' 
knowin'  you  at  the  time." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  the  Parson,  as  Mr.  Jope  paused, 
"  I  fear  it  could  not  be  done  without  scandal." 

"  That  's  just  how  Bill  put  it.  *  Well  then,'  says 
I,  thinkin'  it  over,  '  why  not  do  the  handsome 
while  we  're  about  it  ?  You  an'  me  ain't  the  sort 
of  men,'  I  says, '  to  spoil  the  ship  for  a  ha'porth  o'  tar.' 
*  Certainly  we  ain't,'  says  Bill.  '  An'  we  've  done  a 
lot  for  Eli,'  says  I.  '  We  have,'  says  Bill.  '  Well 
then,'  says  I,  '  let  's  put  a  coat  o'  paint  on  the 
whole  business,  an'  have  him  embalmed.'  Bill  was 
enchanted." 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  put  in  the  barber, 
edging  away  a  pace. 

"  Bill  was  enchanted.  Hark  to  him  in  the  store, 
there,  knockin'  away  at  the  chisel." 

"  But  there  's  some  misunderstanding,"  the  little 
man  protested  earnestly.  "  I  understood  it  was  to 
be  a  shave." 

"  You  can  shave  him,  too,  if  you  like." 

"HI  th — thought  you  were  s — serious " 

"  Have  some  more  brandy."  Mr.  Jope  pulled  out 
and  proffered  a  flask.     "  Only  don't  overdo  it,  or 

260 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

it  '11  make  your  hand  shaky.  .  .  .  Serious  ?  You 
may  lay  to  it  that  Bill 's  serious.  He  's  that  set  on 
the  idea,  it  don't  make  no  difference  to  him,  as 
you  may  have  noticed,  Eli's  mother  not  bein'  alive  to 
take  pleasure  in  it.  Why,  he  wanted  to  embalm 
her,  too  !  He  's  doin'  this  now  for  his  own 
gratification,  is  Bill,  an'  you  may  take  it  from  me 
when  Bill  sets  his  heart  on  a  thing  he  sees  it 
through.     Don't  you  cross  him,  that 's  my  advice." 

"  But— but " 

"  No,  you  don't."  As  the  little  man  made  a 
wild  spring  to  flee  up  the  beach,  Mr.  J  ope  shot  out 
a  hand  and  gripped  him  by  the  coat  collar.  "  Now 
look  here,"  he  said  very  quietly,  as  the  poor  wretch 
would  have  grovelled  at  the  Parson's  feet,  "  you 
was  boastin'  to  Bill,  not  an  hour  agone,  as  you 
could  stuff  anything." 

"  Don't  hurt  him,"  Parson  Spettigew  interposed, 
touching  Mr.  Jope's  arm. 

"  I  'm  not  hurtin'  him,  your  Reverence,  only 

Eh  ?     What  's  that  ?  " 

All  turned  their  faces  towards  the  store. 

(  Your  friend  is  calling  to  you,"  said  the  Parson. 

"  Bad  language,  too  .  .  .  that  's  not  like 
Bill,  as  a  rule.     Ahoy  there,  Bill  !  " 

"  Ahoy  !  "  answered  the  voice  of  Mr.  Adams. 

"  What  's  up  ?  "  Without  waiting  for  an  answer 
Mr.  J  ope  ran  the  barber  before  him  up  the  beach 
to  the  doorway,  the  Parson  following.  "  What  's 
up  ?  "  he  demanded  again,  as  he  drew  breath. 

261 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  Take  an'  see  for  yourself,"  answered  Mr.  Adams 
darkly,  pointing  with  his  chisel. 

A  fine  fragrance  of  rum  permeated  the  store. 

Mr.  J  ope  advanced,  and  peered  into  the  staved 
cask. 

"  Gone  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  and  gazed  around 
blankly. 

Bill  Adams  nodded. 

"  But  where  ?  .  .  .  You  don't  say  he 's 
dissolved  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  the  usual  way  o'  rum.     An'  it  is  rum  ?  " 

Bill  appealed  to  the  Parson. 

"  By  the  smell,  undoubtedly." 

"  I  tell  you  what  's  happened.  That  fool  of  a 
Wilkins  has  made  a  mistake  in  the  cask.     .     .     ." 

"  An'  Eli  ?— oh,  Lord  !  "  gasped  Mr.  Jope. 

"  They  '11  have  returned  Eli  to  the  Victuallin' 
Yard  before  this,"  said  Bill  gloomily.  "  I  overheard 
Wilkins  sayin'  as  he  was  to  pass  over  all  stores  an' 
accounts  at  nine-thirty  this  mornin'." 

"  An',  once  there,  who  knows  where  he  's  got 
mixed  ?  .  .  .  He  '11  go  the  round  o'  the  Fleet, 
may  be.  Oh,  my  word,  an'  the  ship  that  broaches 
him  !  " 

Bill  Adams  opened  and  shut  his  mouth  quickly, 
like  a  fish  ashore. 

"  They  '11  reckon  they  've  got  a  lucky-bag,"  he 
said  weakly. 

"An'  Wilkins  paid  off  with  the  rest,  an'  no 
address,  even  if  he  could  help — which  I  doubt." 

262 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 


i  ( 


Eh  ?  I  got  a  note  from  Wilkins,  as  it  happens." 
Bill  Adams  took  off  his  tarpaulin  hat,  and  extracted 
a  paper  from  the  lining  of  the  crown.  "  He  passed 
it  down  to  me  this  mornin'  as  I  pushed  off  from 
the  ship.  Said  I  was  to  keep  it,  an'  maybe  I  'd 
find  it  useful.  I  wondered  what  he  meant  at  the 
time,  me  takin'  no  particular  truck  with  pursers 
ashore.  .  .  .  It  crossed  my  mind  as  I  'd  heard  he 
meant  to  get  married,  and  maybe  he  wanted  me  to 
stand  best  man  at  the  weddin'.  W'ich  I  didn'  open 
the  note  at  the  time  ;  not  likin'  to  refuse  him,  after 
he  'd  behaved  so  well  to  me." 

"  Pass  it  over,"  commanded  Mr.  Jope.  He  took 
the  paper  and  unfolded  it,  but  either  the  light  was 
dim  within  the  store,  or  the  handwriting  hard  to 
decipher.  "  Would  your  Reverence  read  it  out  for 
us?  " 

Parson  Spettigew  carried  the  paper  to  the  doorway. 
He  read  its  contents  aloud,  and  slowly  : — 

"  To  Mr.   Bill  Adams, 

"  Capt.  of  the  Fore-top,  H.M.S.  Vesuvius. 

Sir, — It  was  a  dummy  Capt.  Crang  buried. 
We  cast  the  late  E.  Tonkin'  overboard  the  second 
night  in  lat.  46/30,  long.  7/15,  or  thereabouts. 
By  which  time  the  feeling  aboard  had  cooled  down 
and  it  seemed  a  waste  of  good  spirit.  The  rum 
you  paid  for  is  good  rum.  Hoping  that  you  and 
Mr.  Jope  will  find  a  use  for  it, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

S.  Wilkins."^ 
263 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

There  was  a  long  pause,  through  which  Mr.  Adams 
could  be  heard  breathing  hard. 

"  But  what  are  we.  to  do  with  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  J  ope, 
scratching  his  head  in  perplexity. 

"  Drink  it.     Wot  else  ?  " 

"  But  where  ?  " 

"  Oh,"    said  Mr.  Adams,  "  anywhere  !  " 

"  That  's  all  very  well,"  replied  his  friend.  "  You 
never  had  no  property,  an'  don't  know  its  burdens. 
We  '11  have  to  hire  a  house  for  this,  an'  live  there 
till  it 's  finished." 


264 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

II 

The    Multiplying    Cellar 

St.  Dilp  by  Tamar  has  altered  little  in  a  hundred 
years.  As  it  stands  to-day,  embowered  in  cherry- 
tr  es,  so  (or  nearly  so)  it  stood  on  that  warm  after- 
noon in  the  early  summer  of  1807,  when  two 
weather-tanned  seamen  of  His  Majesty's  Fleet  came 
along  its  fore  street  with  a  hand-barrow  and  a  huge 
cask  very  cunningly  lashed  thereto.  On  their  way 
they  eyed  the  cottages  and  gardens  to  right  and 
left  with  a  lively  curiosity  ;  but  "  Lord,  Bill," 
said  the  shorter  seaman,  mis-quoting  Wordsworth 
unawares,   "  the  very  houses  look  asleep  !  " 

At  the  Punch-Bowl  Inn,  kept  by  J.  Coyne,  they 
halted  by  silent  consent.  Mr.  William  Adams,  who 
had  been  trundling  the  barrow,  set  it  down,  and  Mr. 
Benjamin  J  ope — whose  good-natured  face  would 
have  recommended  him  anywhere — walked  into  the 
drinking-parlour  and  rapped  on  the  table.  This 
brought  to  him  the  innkeeper's  daughter,  Miss 
Elizabeth,  twenty  years  old  and  comely.  "  What 
can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Two  pots  0'  beer,  first-along,"  said  Mr.  Jope. 

"  Two  ?  " 

"  I  got  a  shipmate  outside." 

Miss  Elizabeth  fetched  the  two  pots. 

"  Here,  Bill !  "  he  called,  carrying  one  to  the  door. 

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NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

Returning,  he  blew  at  the  froth  on  his  own  pot 
meditatively.  "  And  the  next  thing  is,  I  want  a 
house." 

"  A  house  ?  " 

"  'Stonishing  echo  you  keep  here.  .  .  .  Yes, 
miss,  a  house.  My  name  's  Jope — Ben  Jope — o'  the 
Vesuvius  bomb,  bo's'un  ;  but  paid  off  at  eight  this 
morning.  My  friend  outside  goes  by  the  name  of 
Bill  Adams  ;  an'  you  '11  find  him  livelier  than  he 
looks.  Everyone  does.  But  I  forgot ;  you  ha'n't 
seen  him  yet,  and  he  can't  come  in,  havin'  to  look 
after  the  cask." 

"  The  ca —  "  Miss  Elizabeth  had  almost  repeated 
the  word,  but  managed  to  check  herself. 

"  You  ought  to  consult  someone  about  it,  at  your 
age,"  said  Mr.  Jope  solicitously.  "  Yes,  the  cask. 
Rum  it  is,  an'  a  quarter-puncheon.  Bill  and  me 
clubbed  an'  bought  it  off  the  purser  las'  night,  the 
chaplain  havin'  advised  us  not  to  waste  good  prize- 
money  ashore  but  invest  it  in  something  we  really 
wanted.  But  I  don't  know  if  you  've  ever  noticed 
how  often  one  thing  leads  to  another.  You  can't 
go  drinkin'  out  a  quarter-puncheon  o'  rum  in  the 
high  road,  not  very  well.  So  the  next  thing  is,  we 
want  a  house." 

"  But,"  said  the  girl,  "  who  ever  heard  of  a  house 
to  let  hereabouts  !  " 

Mr.  Jope's  face  fell. 

"  Ain't  there  none  ?  An'  it  seemed  so  retired, 
too,  an'  handy  near  Plymouth.". 

266 


THE     CASK     ASHORE 

"  There  's  not  a  house  to  let  in  St.  Dilp  parish, 
unless  it  be  the  Rectory." 

Mr.  Jope's  face  brightened. 

"  Then  we  '11  take  the  Rectory,"  he  said.  "  Where 
is  it  ?  " 

"  Down  by  the  river.  .  .  .  But  'tis  nonsense 
you're  tellin'.  The  Rectory  indeed!  Why,  it's  a 
seat  !  " 

Mr.  Jope's  face  clouded. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  is  that  all  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  fine  one,  too." 

"  It  'd  have  to  be,  to  accomydate  Bill  an'  me  an' 
the  cask.    I  wanted  a  house,  as  I  thought  I  told  ye." 

"  Oh,  but  I  meant  a  country-seat,"  explained  Miss 
Elizabeth.     "  The  Rectory  is  a  house." 

Again  Mr.  Jope's  face  brightened. 

"  An'  so  big,"  she  went  on,  "  that  the  Rector 
can't  afford  to  live  in  it.  That 's  why  'tis  to  let.  The 
rent's  forty  pound." 

"  Can  I  see  him  ?  " 

"  No,  you  can't ;  for  he  lives  up  to  Lunnon  an' 
hires  Parson  Spettigew  of  Botusfleming  to  do  the 
work.  But  it 's  my  father  has  the  lettin'  o'  the 
Rectory  if  a  tenant  comes  along.  He  keeps  the 
keys." 

"  Then  I  'd  like  to  talk  with  your  father." 

"  No  you  wouldn't,"  said  the  girl  frankly  ;  "  be- 
cause he  's  asleep.  Father  drinks  a  quart  o'  cider  at 
three  o'clock  every  day  of  his  life,  an'  no  one  don't 
dare  disturb  him  before  six." 

267 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  Well,  I  like  reggilar  habits,"  said  Mr.  Jope, 
diving  a  hand  into  his  breeches'  pocket  and  drawing 
forth  a  fistful  of  golden  guineas.  "  But  couldn't 
you  risk  it  ?  " 

Miss  Elizabeth's  eyes  wavered. 

"  No,  I  couldn',"  she  sighed,  shaking  her  head 
"  Father  's  very  violent  in  his  temper.  But  I  tell 
you  what,"  she  added  :  "  I  might  fetch  the  keys,  and 
you  might  go  an'  see  the  place  for  yourself." 

"  Capital,"  said  Mr.  Jope.  While  she  was  fetching 
these  he  finished  his  beer.  Then,  having  insisted 
on  paying  down  a  guinea  for  earnest-money,  he  took 
the  keys  and  her  directions  for  finding  the  house. 
She  repeated  them  in  the  porch  for  the  benefit  of  the 
taller  seaman  ;  who,  as  soon  as  she  had  concluded, 
gripped  the  handles  of  his  barrow  afresh  and  set  off 
without  a  word.  She  gazed  after  the  pair  as  they 
passed  down  the  street. 

At  the  foot  of  it  a  by-lane  branched  off  towards 
the  creek-side.  It  led  them  past  a  churchyard  and 
a  tiny  church  almost  smothered  in  cherry-trees — 
for  the  churchyard  was  half  an  orchard  :  past  a 
tumbling  stream,  a  mill  and  some  wood  stacks  ;  and 
so,  still  winding  downwards,  brought  them  to  a  pair 
of  iron  gates,  rusty  and  weather-greened.  The  gates 
stood  unlocked  ;  and  our  two  seamen  found  them- 
selves next  in  a  carriage  drive  along  which  it  was  plain 
no  carriage  had  passed  for  a  very  long  while.  It  was 
overgrown  with  weeds,  and  straggling  laurels  en- 
croached upon  it  on  either  hand  ;   and  as  it  rounded 

268 


THE     CASK    ASHORE 

one   of   these   laurels   Mr.   J  ope   caught  his  breath 
sharply. 

"  Lor'  lumme  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  a  seat,  as 
the  gel  said  !  " 

Mr.  Adams,  following  close  with  the  wheelbarrow, 
set  it  down,  stared,  and  said — 

"  Then  she  's  a  liar.     It 's  a  house." 

"  It 's  twice  the  size  of  a  three-decker,  anyway," 
said  his  friend,  and  together  they  stood  and  con- 
templated the  building. 

It  was  a  handsome  pile  of  old  brickwork,  set  in  a 
foundation  of  rock  almost  overhanging  the  river — 
on  which,  however,  it  turned  its  back  ;  in  design,  an 
oblong  of  two  storys,  with  a  square  tower  at  each  of 
the  four  coiners,  and  the  towers  connected  by  a 
parapet  of  freestone.  The  windows  along  the  front 
were  regular,  and  those  on  the  ground-floor  less 
handsome  than  those  of  the  upper  floor,  where  (it 
appeared)  were  the  state-rooms.  For  —  strangest 
feature  of  all — the  main  entrance  was  in  this  upper 
story,  with  a  dozen  broad  steps  leading  down  to  the 
unkempt  carriage  way  and  a  lawn,  across  which  a 
magnificent  turkey  oak  threw  dark  masses  of 
shadow. 

But  the  house  was  a  picture  of  decay.  Un- 
painted  shutters  blocked  the  windows ;  tall 
grasses  sprouted  in  the  crevices  of  entrance  steps 
and  parapet ;  dislodged  slates  littered  the  drive  ; 
smears  of  dust  ran  down  the  main  roof  and  from  a 
lantern  of  which  the  louvers  were  all  in  ruin,  some 


269 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

hanging  by  a  nail,  others  blown  on  edge  by  long-past 
gales.  The  very  nails  had  rusted  out  of  the  walls, 
and  the  creepers  they  should  have  supported  hung 
down  in  ropy  curtains. 

Mr.  Adams  scratched  his  head. 

"  What  I  'd  like  to  know,"  said  he  after  a  while, 
"  is  how  to  get  the  cask  up  them  steps." 

"  There  '11  be  a  cellar-door  for  sartin,"  Mr.  J  ope 
assured  him  cheerfully.  "  You  don't  suppose  the 
gentry  takes  their  beer  in  at  the  front,  hey  ?  " 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  "  is  rum  ;  which  is  a 
totally  different  thing."  But  he  set  down  his  barrow, 
albeit  reluctantly,  and  followed  his  shipmate  up  the 
entrance  steps.  The  front  door  was  massive,  and 
sheeted  over  with  lead  embossed  in  foliate  and 
heraldic  patterns.  Mr.  J  ope  inserted  the  key,  turned 
it  with  some  difficulty,  and  pushed  the  door  wide. 
It  opened  immediately  upon  the  great  hall,  and  after 
a  glance  within  he  removed  his  hat. 

The  hall,  some  fifty  feet  long,  ran  right  across  the 
waist  of  the  house,  and  was  lit  by  tall  windows  at 
either  end.  Its  floor  was  of  black  and  white  marble 
in  lozenge  pattern.  Three  immense  chandeliers 
depended  from  its  roof.  Along  each  of  the  two 
unpierced  walls,  against  panels  of  peeling  stucco, 
stood  a  line  of  statuary — heathen  goddesses,  fauns, 
athletes  and  gladiators,  with  here  and  there  a  vase 
or  urn  copied  from  the  antique.  The  furniture 
consisted  of  half  a  dozen  chairs,  a  settee,  and  an 
octagon    table,   all  carved  out  of  wood  in  pseudo- 

270 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

classical  patterns,  and  painted  with  a  grey  wash 
to  resemble  stone. 

"  It 's  a  fine  room,"  said  Mr.  Jope,  walking  up  to  a 
statue  of  Diana  :  "  but  a  man  couldn'  hardly  invite 
a  mixed  company  to  dinner  here." 

"  Symonds's  f'r  instance,"  suggested  Mr.  Adams. 
Symonds's  being  a  somewhat  notorious  boarding- 
house  in  a  street  of  Plymouth  which  shall  be 
nameless. 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  yourself,  Bill," 
said  Mr.  Jope  sternly. 

"  They  're  anticks,  that 's  what  they  are." 

Mr.  Adams  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  shouldn'  wonder,"  he  said. 

"  Turnin'  'em  wi'  their  faces  to  the  wall  'd  look  too 
marked,"  mused  Mr.  Jope.  "  But  a  few  tex  o' 
Scripture  along  the  walls  might  ease  things  down  a 

bit." 

"  Wot  about  the  hold  ?  "    Mr.  Adams  suggested. 

"  The  cellar,  you  mean.     Let's  have  a  look." 

They  passed  through  the  hall ;  thence  down  a 
stone  stairway  into  an  ample  vaulted  kitchen,  and 
thence  along  a  slate-flagged  corridor  flanked  by 
sculleries,  larders  and  other  kitchen  offices.  The  two 
seamen  searched  the  floors  of  all  in  hope  of  finding  a 
cellar  trap  or  hatchway,  and  Mr.  Adams  was  still 
searching  when  Mr.  Jope  called  to  him  from  the  end 
of  the  corridor — 

"  Here  we  are  !  " 

He  had  found  a  flight  of  steps  worthy  of  a  cathedral 

271 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

crypt,  leading  down  to  a  stone  archway.  The  arch- 
way was  closed  by  an  iron-studded  door. 

"  It's  like  goin'  to  church,"  commented  Mr.  Jope, 
bating  his  voice.     "  Where's  the  candles,  Bill  ?  " 

"  In  the  barrer  long  wi'  the  bread  an'  bacon." 

"  Then  step  back  and  fetch  'em." 

But  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Mr.  Jope  presently 
called  up  that  this  was  unnecessary,  for  the  door  had 
opened  to  his  hand — smoothly,  too,  and  without 
noise  ;  but  he  failed  to  note  this  as  strange,  being 
taken  aback  for  the  moment  by  a  strong  draught  of 
air  that  met  him,  blowing  full  in  his  face. 

"There's  daylight  here,  too,  of  a  sort,"  he  re- 
ported :  and  so  there  was.  It  pierced  the  darkness 
in  a  long  shaft,  slanting  across  from  a  doorway 
of  which  the  upper  panel  stood  open  to  the  sky. 

"  Funny  way  o'  leavin'  a  house,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  stepped  across  the  bare  cellar  floor  and  peered 
forth.     "  Why,  hullo,  here  's  water  !  " 

The  cellar,  in  fact,  stood  close  by  the  river's  edge, 
with  a  broad  postern-sill  actually  overhanging  the 
tide,  and  a  flight  of  steps,  scarcely  less  broad,  curving 
up  and  around  the  south-west  angle  of  the  house. 

While  Mr.  Jope  studied  these  and  the  tranquil 
river  flowing,  all  grey  and  twilit,  at  his  feet,  Mr. 
Adams  had  joined  him  and  had  also  taken  bearings. 

"  With  a  check-rope,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  "  — and  I 
got  one  in  the  barrer — we  can  lower  it  down  here 
easy." 

He  pointed  to  the  steps. 

272 


THE    CASK     ASHORE 

"  Hey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Jope.  "  Yes,  the  cask— to  be 
sure." 

"  Wot  else  ?  "  said  Mr.  Adams.  "  An'  I  reckon 
we  'd  best  get  to  work,  if  we  're  to  get  it  housed  afore 
dark." 

They  did  so  :  but  by  the  time  they  had  the  cask 
bestowed  and  trigged  up,  and  had  spiled  it  and 
inserted  a  tap,  darkness  had  fallen.  If  they  wished 
to  explore  the  house  further,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  carry  candle  :  and  somehow  neither  Mr.  Jope 
nor  Mr.  Adams  felt  eager  for  this  adventure.  They 
were  hungry,  moreover.  So  they  decided  to  make 
their  way  back  to  the  great  hall,  and  sup. 

They  supped  by  the  light  of  a  couple  of  candles. 
The  repast  consisted  of  bread  and  cold  bacon  washed 
down  by  cold  rum-and-water.  At  Symonds's — they 
gave  no  utterance  to  this  reflection,  but  each  knew 
it  to  be  in  the  other's  mind — at  Symonds's  just  now 
there  would  be  a  boiled  leg  of  mutton  with  turnips, 
and  the  rum  would  be  hot,  with  a  slice  of  lemon. 

"  We  shall  get  accustomed,"  said  Mr.  Jope  with 
a  forced  air  of  cheerfulness. 

Mr.  Adams  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
statuary,  and  answered  "  yes  "  in  a  loud  unfaltering 
voice.  After  a  short  silence  he  arose,  opened  one 
of  the  windows,  removed  a  quid  from  his  cheek,  laid 
it  carefully  on  the  outer  sill,  closed  the  window,  and 
resumed  his  seat.  Mr.  Jope  had  pulled  out  a  cake 
of  tobacco,  and  was  slicing  it  into  small  pieces  with 
his  clasp  knife. 

273 
18 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

"  Goin'  to  smoke  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Adams,  with 
another  glance  at  the  Diana. 

"  It  don't  hurt  this  'ere  marble  pavement — not 
like  the  other  thing." 

"  No  " — Mr.  Adams  contemplated  the  pavement 
while  he,  too,  drew  forth  and  rilled  a  pipe — "  a  man 
might  play  a  game  of  checkers  on  it  ;  that  is  o' 
course,  when  no  one  was  lookin'." 

"  I  been  thinking,"  announced  Mr.  Jope,  "  over 
what  his  Reverence  said  about  bankin'  our  money." 

"  How  much  d'ye  reckon  we  've  got  ?  " 

"  Between  us  ?  Hundred  an'  twelve  pound, 
fourteen  and  six.  That 's  after  paying  for  rum, 
barrer  and  oddments.  We  could  live,"  said  Mr. 
Jope,  removing  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  pointing 
the  stem  at  his  friend  in  expository  fashion — "  we 
could  live  in  this  here  house  for  more  'n  three  years." 

"  Oh!  "  said  Mr.  Adams,  but  without  enthusiasm. 
"  Could  we  now  ?  " 

"  That  is,  if  we  left  out  the  vittles." 

"  But  we  're  not  goin'  to." 

"  O'  course  not.  Vittles  for  two  '11  run  away  with 
a  heap  of  it.     And  then  there  '11  be  callers." 

"  Callers  ?  "  Mr.  Adams's  face  brightened. 

"  Not  the  sort  you  mean.  Country  folk.  It 's  the 
usual  thing  when  strangers  come  an'  settle  in  a  place 
o'  this  size.  .  .  .  But,  all  the  same,  a  hundred  an' 
twelve  pound,  fourteen  and  six  is  a  heap  :  an'  as  I 
say,  we  got  to  think  over  bankin'  it.  A  man  feels 
solid  settin'  here  with  money  under  his  belt ;    an' 

274 


THE    CASK     ASHORE 

yet  between  you  an'  me  I  wouldn't  mind  if  it  was 
less  so,  in  a  manner  o'  speakin'." 

"  Me,  either." 

"  I  was  wonderin'  what  it  would  feel  like  to  wake 
in  the  night  an'  tell  yourself  that  someone  was  rollin' 
up  money  for  you  like  a  snowball." 

"  There  might  be  a  certain  amount  of  f riskiness  in 
that.  But  contrariwise,  if  you  waked  an'  told 
yourself  the  fella  was  runnin'  off  with  it,  there 
wuldn'." 

"  Shore  living  folks  takes  that  risk  an'  grows 
accustomed  to  it.  W'y  look  at  the  fellow  in  charge 
o'  this  house." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Adams  nervously. 

"  The  landlord-fellow,  I  mean,  up  in  the  village. 
His  daughter  said  he  went  to  sleep  every  arternoon, 
an'  wouldn'  be  waked.  How  could  a  man  afford  to 
do  that  if  his  money  wasn'  rollin'  up  somewhere  for 
him  ?  An'  the  place  fairly  lined  with  barrels  o' 
good  liquor." 

"  Mightn't  liquor  accumylate  in  the  same  way  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Adams,  with  sudden,  and  lively 
interest. 

"  No,  you  nincom',"  began  Mr.  Jope — when  a 
loud  knocking  on  the  outer  door  interrupted  him. 
"  Hullo  !  "  he  sank  his  voice.     "  Callers  already  !  ' 

He  went  to  the  door,  unlocked  and  opened  it. 
A  heavy-shouldered,  bull-necked  man  stood  outside 
in  the  dusk. 

"  Good  evenin'."  '  -  j 

275 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

"  Evenin',"  said  the  stranger.  "  My  name  is 
Coyne,  an'  you  must  get  out  o'  this." 

"  I  don't  see  as  it  follows,"  answered  Mr.  Jope 
meditatively.     "  But  hadn't  you  better  step  inside  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  bandy  words "  began  the 

publican,  entering  as  though  he  shouldered  his  way. 

"  That 's  right !  Bill,  fetch  an'  fill  a  glass  for  the 
gentleman." 

"  No  thank  you.  .  .  .  Well,  since  you  have  it 
handy.  But  look  here  :  I  got  nothin'  particular  to 
say  against  you  two  men,  only  you  can't  stop  here 
to-night.  That 's  straight  enough,  I  hope,  and  no 
bones  broken." 

"  Straight  it  is,"  Mr.  Jope  agreed  :  "  and  we  '11 
talk  o'  the  bones  by  an'  by.  Wot  name,  sir  ? — 
makin'  so  bold." 

"  My  name's  Coyne." 

"  An'  mine's  Cash."  Mr.  Jope  fumbled  with  the 
fastening  of  a  pouch  underneath  his  broad  waist- 
belt.     "  So  we  're  well  met.     How  much  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  " 

"  How  much  ?  Accordin'  to  your  darter  'twas 
forty  pound  a  year,  an'  money  down  :  but  whether 
monthly  or  quarterly  she  didn'  say." 

"  It 's  no  question  of  money.  It 's  a  question  of 
you  two  clearin'  out,  and  at  once.  I  'm  breakin' 
what  I  have  to  say  as  gently  as  I  can.  If  you  don't 
choose  to  understand  plain  language,  I  must  go 
an'  fetch  the  constable." 

"  I  seen  him,  up  at  the  village  this  afternoon,  an' 

276 


THE     CASK     ASHORE 

you  'd  better  not.     Bill,  why  can't  ye  fill  the  gentle- 
man's glass  ?  " 

"  Because  the  jug 's  empty,"  answered  Mr.  Adams. 

"  Then  slip  down  to  the  cellar  again." 

"  No  !  "  Mr.  Coyne  almost  screamed  it,  rising 
from  his  chair.  Dropping  back  weakly,  he  murmured, 
panting,  "  Not  for  me  :  not  on  any  account  !  "  His 
face  was  pale,  and  for  the  moment  all  the  aggressive- 
ness had  gone  out  of  him.  He  lifted  a  hand  weakly 
to  his  heart. 

"  A  sudden  faintness,"  he  groaned,  closing  his 
eyes.  "  If  you  two  men  had  any  feelin's,  you  'd  offer 
to  see  me  home." 

"  The  pair  of  us  ?  "  asked  Mr.  J  ope  suavely. 

"  I  scale  over  fourteen  stone,"  murmured  Mr. 
Coyne,  still  with  his  eyes  closed  ;  "  an'  a  weight  like 
that  is  no  joke." 

Mr.  J  ope  nodded. 

"  You  're  right  there  ;  so  you  'd  best  give  it  over. 
Sorry  to  seem  heartless,  sir,  but  'tis  for  your  good  : 
an'  to  walk  home  in  your  state  would  be  a  sin,  when 
we  can  fix  you  up  a  bed  in  the  house." 

Mr.  Coyne  opened  his  eyes,  and  they  were  twinkling 
vindictively. 

"  Sleep  in  this  house  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
wouldn't  do  it,  not  for  a  thousand  pound  !  " 

"  W'y  not  ?  " 

"  You  '11  find  out  '  why  not,'  safe  enough,  afore 
the  mornin'  !  Why  'twas  in  kindness — pure  kind- 
ness— I  asked  the  pair  of  ye  to  see  me  home.     I 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

wouldn't  be  one  to  stay  in  this  house  alone  arter 
nightfall — no,  or  I  wouldn't  be  one  to  leave  a  dog 
alone  here,  let  be  a  friend.  My  daughter  didn'  tell, 
I  reckon,  as  this  place  was  ha'nted  ?  " 

'*  Ha'nted  ?  " 

"  Ay.    By  females  too." 

"  O — oh  !  "  Mr.  Adams,  who  had  caught  his 
breath,  let  it  escape  in  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  "  Like 
Symonds's,"  he  murmured. 

"  Not  a  bit  like  Symonds's,"  his  friend  corrected 
snappishly.  "  He  's  talkin'  o'  dead  uns — ghosts — 
that  is,  if  I  take  your  meanin',  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Coyne  nodded. 

"That's  it.     Ghosts." 

"  Get  out  with  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Adams,  incredulous. 

"  You  must  be  a  pair  of  very  simple  men,"  said 
landlord  Coyne,  half-closing  his  eyes  again,  "  if  you 
reckoned  that  forty  pound  would  rent  a  place  like 
this  without  some  drawbacks.  Well,  the  drawbacks 
is  ghosts.     Four  of  'em,  and  all  females." 

"  Tell  us  about  'em,  sir,"  requested  Mr.  J  ope, 
dropping  into  his  seat.  "  An'  if  Bill  don't  care  to 
listen,  he  can  fill  up  his  time  by  takin'  the  jug  an' 
steppin'  down  to  the  cellar." 

"  Damned  if  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  stealing  a 
glance  over  his  shoulder  at  the  statues. 

"  It 's  a  distressin'  story,"  began  Mr.  Coyne  with 
a  very  slight  flutter  of  the  eyelids.  "  Maybe  my 
daughter  told  you — an'  if  she  didn't,  you  may  have 
found  out  for  yourselves — as  how  this  here  house  is 

278 


THE     CASK    ASHORE 

properly  speakin'  four  houses — nothing  in  common 
but  the  roof,  an'  the  cellar,  an'  this  room  we  're  sittin' 
in.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  back  along  there  lived  an  old 
Rector  here,  with  a  man-servant  called  Oliver.  One 
day  he  rode  up  to  Exeter,  spent  a  week  there,  an' 
brought  home  a  wife.  Footman  Oliver  was  ready  at 
the  door  to  receive  'em,  an'  the  pair  went  upstairs 
to  a  fine  set  o'  rooms  he  'd  made  ready  in  the  sou'- 
west  tower,  an'  there  for  a  whole  month  they  lived 
together,  as  you  might  say,  in  wedded  happiness. 

"  At  th'  end  o'  the  month  th'  old  Rector  discovered 
he  had  business  takin'  him  to  Bristol.  He  said  his 
farewells  very  lovin'ly,  promised  to  come  back  as 
soon  as  he  could,  but  warned  the  poor  lady  against 
setting  foot  outside  the  doors.  The  gardens  an' 
fields  (he  said)  swarmed  with  field  mice,  an'  he  knew 
she  had  a  terror  of  mice  of  all  sorts.  So  off  he  rode, 
an'  by  an'  by  came  back  by  night  with  a  second 
young  lady  :  and  Oliver  showed  'em  up  to  the 
nor'-east  tower  for  the  honeymoon. 

"  A  week  later  my  gentleman  had  a  call  to  post 
down  to  Penzance.  He  warned  his  second  wife  that 
it  was  a  terrible  year  for  adders  an'  the  ground 
swarmin'  with  'em,  for  he  knew  she  had  a  horror  o' 
snakes.  Inside  of  a  fortnight  he  brought  home  a 
third " 

"  Bill,"  said  Mr.  J  ope,  sitting  up  sharply,  "  what 
noise  was  that  ? 

"  I  didn't  hear  it,"  answered  Mr.  Adams,  who  was 
turning  up  his  trousers  uneasily.    "  Adders,  may  be." 

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NEWS     FROM    THE     DUCHY 

"  Seemed  to  me  it  sounded  from  somewheres  in 
the  cellar.  Maybe  you  wouldn't  mind  steppin'  down, 
seein'  as  you  don't  take  no  interest  in  what  Mr. 
Coyne's  tellin'." 

"  I  'm  beginning  to." 

"  The  cellar 's  the  worst  place  of  all,"  said  Mr. 
Coyne,  blinking.  "  It 's  there  that  the  bodies  were 
found." 

"  Bodies  ?  " 

"  Bodies.  Four  of  'em.  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you 
how  he  brought  home  another,  havin'  kept  the  third 
poor  lady  to  her  rooms  with  some  tale  about  a  mad 
dog  starvin'  to  death  in  his  shrubberies — he  didn't 
know  where " 

"  If  you  don't  mind,"  Mr.  Jope  interposed,  "  I  've 
a  notion  to  hear  the  rest  o'  the  story  some  other 
evenin'.  It 's — it 's  agreeable  enough  to  bear  spinnin' 
out,  an'  I  understand  you  're  a  fixture  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Coyne,  rising.  "  But  wot 
about  you  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Jope  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair,  having 
uttered  the  bravest  speech  of  his  life.  He  sat  for 
a  while,  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  echoing  strangely 
in  his  ears,  even  when  Mr.  Coyne  rose  to  take  his 
leave. 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  admirin'  you,"  said  Mr.  Coyne 
handsomely.  "  By  the  way  the  rent 's  by  the 
quarter,  an'  in  advance — fours  into  forty  is  ten  ;    I 

280 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

mention  it  as  a  matter  of  business,  and  in  case  we 
don't  meet  again." 

Mr.  J  ope  counted  out  the  money. 

When  Mr.  Coyne  had  taken  his  departure  the  pair 
sat  a  long  while  in  silence,  their  solitary  candle 
flickering  on  the  table  between  them. 

"  You  spoke  out  very  bold,"  said  Mr.  Adams  at 
length. 

"  Did  I  ?  "  said  Mr.  Jope.     "  I  didn't  feel  it." 

"  What  cuts  me  to  the  quick  is  the  thought  o' 
them  adders  outside." 

"  Ye  dolt  !  There  ain't  no  real  adders  outside. 
They  're  what  the  chap  invented  to  frighten  the 
women." 

"  Sure  ?  Then,"  mused  Mr.  Adams,  after  a  pause, 
"  maybe  there  ain't  no  real  ghosts  neither,  but  he 
invented  the  whole  thing." 

"  Maybe.  What  d'ye  say  to  steppin'  down  an" 
fetchin'  up  another  mugful  o'  liquor  ?  " 

"  I  say,"  answered  Mr.  Adams  slowly,  "  as  how  I 
won't." 

"  Toss  for  it,"  suggested  Mr.  Jope.  "  You  refuse  ? 
Very  well  then  I  must  go.  On'y  I  thought  better  of 
ye,  Bill— I  did  indeed." 

"  I  can't  help  what  ye  thought,"  Mr.  Adams  began 
sulkily  ;  and  then,  as  his  friend  rose  with  the  face 
of  a  man  who  goes  to  meet  the  worst  he  sprang  up 
quaking.  "  Lord's  sake,  Ben  Jope  !  You  ain't 
a-goin'  to  take  the  candle  an'  leave  me  !  " 

"  Bill  Adams,"  said  Mr.  Jope  with  fine  solemnity, 

281 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

'  if  I  was  to  put  a  name  on  your  besettin'  sin,  it 
would  be  cowardice — an'  you  can  just  sit  here  in  the 
dark  an'  think  it  over." 

'  When  I  was  on  the  p'int  of  offering  to  go 
with  ye  !  " 

"  Ho  !  Was  you.  Very  well,  then,  I  accept  the 
offer,  an'  you  can  walk  first." 

"  But  I  don't  see " 

'  Another  word,"  announced  Mr.  J  ope  firmly, 
'  an'  you  won't !     For  I'll  blow  out  the  candle." 

Mr.  Adams  surrendered,  and  tottered  to  the  door. 
They  passed  out,  and  through  the  vaulted  kitchen, 
and  along  the  slate-flagged  corridor — very  slowly 
here,  for  a  draught  fluttered  the  candle  flame,  and 
Mr.  J  ope  had  to  shield  it  with  a  shaking  palm.  Once 
with  a  hoarse  "  What 's  that  ?  "  Mr.  Adams  halted 
and  cast  himself  into  a  posture  of  defence — against 
his  own  shadow,  black  and  amorphous,  wavering  on 
the  wall. 

They  came  to  the  iron-studded  door. 

"  Open,  you,"  commanded  Mr.  J  ope  under  his 
breath.  "  And  not  too  fast,  mind — there  was  a 
breeze  o'  wind  blowin'  this  arternoon.  Steady  does 
it — look  out  for  the  step,  an'  then  straight  forw " 

A  howl  drowned  the  last  word,  as  Mr.  Adams 
struck  his  shin  against  some  obstacle  and  pitched 
headlong  into  darkness — a  howl  of  pain  blent  with  a 
dull  jarring  rumble.  Silence  followed,  and  out  of  the 
silence  broke  a  faint  groan. 

"  Bill  !     Bill  Adams  !     Oh,   Bill,   for  the   Lord's 

2S2 


THE    CASK    ASHORE 

sake !  "     Still  mechanically  shielding  his  candle, 

Mr.  Jope  staggered  back  a  pace,  and  leaned  against 
the  stone  door-jamb  for  support. 

"  Here  !  "  sounded  the  voice  of  Bill,  very  faint  in 
the  darkness.  "  Here  !  fetch  along  the  light, 
quick  !  " 

"  Wot 's  it  ?  " 

"  Casks." 

"  Casks  ?  " 

"  Kegs,  then.  I  ought  to  know,"  responded  Bill 
plaintively,  "  seing  as  I  pretty  near  broke  my  leg  on 
one  !  " 

Mr.  Jope  peered  forward,  holding  the  light  high. 
In  the  middle  of  the  cellar  stood  the  quarter  puncheon 
and  around  it  a  whole  regiment  of  small  barrels. 
Half  doubting  his  eyesight,  he  stooped  to  examine 
them.     Around  each  keg  was  bound  a  sling  of  rope. 

"  Rope  ?  "  muttered  Mr.  Jope,  stooping.    "  Foreign 

rope — left-handed  rope "      And  with  that  of  a 

sudden  he  sat  down  on  the  nearest  keg  and  began  to 
laugh.  "  The  old  varmint  !  the  darned  old  sinful 
methodeerin'  varmint  !  " 

"  Oh,  stow  it,  Ben  !  Tisn'  manly."  But  still 
the  unnatural  laughter  continued.  "  What  in 
thunder " 

Bill  Adams  came  groping  between  the  kegs. 

"  Step  an'  bar  the  outer  door,  ye  nincom  !  Can't 
you  see  ?  There 's  been  a  run  o'  goods  ;  an'  while 
that  Coyne  sat  stuffin'  us  up  with  his  ghosts,  his  boys 
were  down  below  here  loadin'  us  up  with  neat  furrin' 

283 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

sperrits — loadin'  us  up,  mark  you.  My  blessed 
word,  the  fun  we  '11  have  wi'  that  Coyne  to-morrow  !  " 

Mr.  Adams  in  a  mental  fog  groped  his  way  to  the 
door  opening  on  the  river  steps,  bolted  it,  groped  his 
way  back  and  stood  scratching  his  head.  A  grin, 
grotesque  in  the  wavering  light,  contorted  the  long 
lower  half  of  the  face  for  a  moment  and  was  gone. 
He  seldom  smiled. 

"  On  the  whole,"  said  Mr.  Adams,  indicating  the 
kegs,  "  I  fancy  these  better  'n  the  naked  objects 
upstairs.  Suppose  we  spend  the  rest  o'  the  night 
here  ?  It 's  easier,"  he  added,  "  than  runnin'  to  and 
fro  for  the  drink.  But  what  about  liquor  not 
accumylatin'  ?  " 


284 


PART   II 


Priam  s    Cellars 


Priam's  Cellars  lie  by  the  harbour-side  over  against 
Troy  Town,  as  is  meet  and  proper :  nor  was  their  name 
invented  by  me — you  may  find  it  on  the  Admiralty 
charts.  But  as  there  are,  or  have  been,  Troys  and 
Troys,  so  the  Priam  here  commemorated  is  not  he 
whom  Neoptolemus  slew.  Indeed,  there  are  found 
folk  who  spell  my  Priam's  name  "  Prime,"  or  "  Old 
Prime,"  and  insist  that  he  derived  it  from  the 
quality  of  the  beer  he  brewed  here  and  purveyed. 
He  is  dead  and  gone,  anyhow,  these  many  years  ; 
and  the  ale-house  he  kept  open  for  seamen  is  now 
a  store  for  dunnage-wood,  a  ruin  almost,  upon  a 
dilapidated  quay. 

It  must  have  been,  as  Mr.  W.  Bones  described 
The  Admiral  Benbow  'a  pleasant  sittyated  grog- 
shop ;  '  but  ticklish  of  access ;  and  (one  may 
surmise)  even  more  ticklish  for  the  retreating 
guest.  A  steep  cliff  backs  it  ;  cliff,  with  a  foreshore 
of  rock  and  slippery  weed,  closes  it  in  upon  either 
hand  ;  no  road  leads  to  it,  nor  even  a  footpath. 
In  short,  it  can  only  be  reached  by  boat ;  and  of  this 
no  doubt  Mr.  Priam,  or  Prime,  took  account  when  he 
brewed. 

287 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

From  the  cliff  overhanging  the  rear  of  the  cellars 
a  wilderness  climbs  the  hillside,  terrace  by  terrace  ; 
based  with  a  line  of  sizeable  trees  that  droop  their 
boughs  to  the  high  tides,  and  mounting  through 
orchards  of  apple,  pear,  plum,  cherry,  and  thickets 
of  hawthorn,  blackthorn,  spindlewood,  elder,  to  a 
high  amphitheatre  which  is  all  gorse  and  bracken, 
with  here  and  there  a  holly  or  an  ilex  standing  up 
from  the  undergrowth.  The  fruit  trees  are  decrepit, 
twisted  with  age  or  by  the  climbing  ivy.  The 
cherries  have  reverted  to  savagery,  and  serve  only 
to  make  a  pretty  show  of  blossom  in  April.  No  one 
knows  when  they  were  planted  for  human  delight  : 
but  planted  they  once  were,  and  for  that  purpose, 
for  my  wilderness  six  hundred  years  ago  for  certain — 
and  possibly  seven  or  eight  hundred  3'ears  ago — was 
a  terraced  garden,  pleasance  of  the  great  house  that 
stood  where  now  stands  the  farmstead  of  Hall,  a 
little  beyond  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

Listen  ;  for  this,  if  you  please,  is  history.  Some 
time  in  the  reign  of  King  Edward  II  there  sailed 
into  the  harbour  below  a  young  knight,  Sir  Reginald 
de  Mohun  by  name,  with  a  company  of  soldiers 
drafted  for  Ireland — our  port  being  in  those  days 
a  frequent  rendezvous  for  the  Irish  wars.  Now  either 
the  expedition  was  held  windbound,  or  some  units 
were  late  in  arriving ;  at  all  events,  young 
Sir  Reginald,  being  detained  here,  landed  one  day 
to  kill  time,  and  let  fly  his  hawk  at  some  game. 
Hawk  and  quarry  fell  together  into  this  garden, 

288 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

then  owned  by  Sir  John  FitzWilliam,  of  Hall,  who 
held  £20  per  annum  of  land  of  King  Edward  with 
"  summons  to  attend  the  King  in  parts  beyond  the 
sea,"  as  his  ancestors  had  held  it  since  the  Conquest. 
But  he  had  no  sons.  His  sole  heir  was  his  daughter 
Elizabeth.  As  she  wandered  in  her  garden,  young 
Mohun,  bursting  in  hotfoot  to  reclaim  his  hawk, 
came  face  to  face  with  her,  "  and,"  concludes  the 
chronicle,  "  being  a  very  handsome  personable 
young  gentleman,  qualities  which  his  descendants 
retained  to  the  last,  the  young  lady  fell  in  love  with 
him  :  and,  having  a  great  fortune,  the  match  was 
soon  made  up  between  them  by  the  consent  of  their 
friends  on  both  sides." 

This  Reginald  de  Mohun  was  the  fourth  or  fifth 
son  of  John  de  Mohun,  Lord  of  Dunster,  in  Somerset ; 
and  the  Mohuns  of  Dunster  had  been  great  folk 
since  the  Conquest  and  before.  "Be  it  known," 
says  Leland,  "  that  in  the  year  of  the  grace  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ  one  thousand  and  sixty-six,  on 
Saturday  the  feast  of  St.  Calixtus,  came  William  the 
Bastard,  Duke  of  Normandy,  cousin  of  the  noble 
King  St.  Edward,  the  son  of  Emma  of  England,  and 
killed  King  Harold,  and  took  away  the  land  from 
him  by  the  aid  of  the  Normans  and  other  men  of 
divers  lands  :  among  whom  came  with  him  Sir 
William  de  Moion  the  old,  the  most  noble  of  all  the 
host."  But  Leland  must  have  copied  some  flattering 
document.  Moion  or  Mohun  was  no  more  noble 
and  no  more  powerful  than  Mowbray  or  Marmion, 

289 
19 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Bigot  or  Mortimer,  Montfichet  or  Lacy  or  Courcy. 
Still,  he  was  noble  and  powerful  enough. 

Le  viel  William  dc  Mohun 
Ont  avecq  li  maint  compagnon 

— and  he  became  Sheriff  of  Somerset,  and  one  of 
the  wealthiest  landowners  in  the  West  of  England. 
The  Empress  Matilda  made  his  son  Earl  of  Somerset, 
a  title  which  subsequent  Mohuns  could  not  get 
confirmed  until  a  great-great-grandson,  "  a  man 
of  singular  gentleness  and  piety,"  recovered  it  in 
a  highly  romantic  manner. 

"  When  Sir  Reginald  saw  that  done  "  [that  being 
the  dedication  of  a  Cistercian  Abbey  he  had  built 
at  Newenham,  on  the  borders  of  Devon  and  Somerset] 
"  he  passed  to  the  Court  of  Rome,  which  was  then 
at  Lyons,  to  confirm  and  ratify  his  new  Abbey  to 
his  great  honour  for  ever  ;  and  he  was  at  the  Court  in 
Lent,  when  they  sing  the  office  of  the  Mass  Laetare 
Jerusalem,  on  which  day  the  custom  of  the  Court 
is  that  the  Apostle  (the  Pope,  to  wit)  gives  to  the 
most  valiant  and  the  most  honourable  man  who 
can  be  found  at  the  said  Court  a  rose  or  flower  of  fine 
gold.  They  therefore  searched  the  whole  Court, 
and  found  this  Reginald  to  be  the  most  noble  ;  and 
to  him  Pope  Innocent  gave  this  rose  or  flower  of  gold, 
and  the  Pope  asked  him  what  manner  of  man  he  was 
in  his  own  country.  He  answered,  '  A  plain  knight 
bachelor.'  '  Fair  son,'  said  the  Pope,  '  this  rose  or 
flower  has  never  been  given  save  to  Kings  or  to 


290 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

Dukes  or  to  Earls  ;  therefore  we  will  that  you  shall 
be  Earl  of  Este  '  ;  that  is,  of  Somerset.  Reginald 
answered  and  said,  '  O  Holy  Father,  I  have  not 
wherewithal  to  maintain  the  title.'  The  Apostle 
therefore  gave  him  two  hundred  marks  a  year,  to 
be  received  at  the  Choir  of  St.  Paul's,  in  London, 
out  of  the  pence*  of  England,  to  maintain  his 
position."  So  Sir  Reginald  returned  home  with  the 
Papal  bulls  confirming  his  title,  his  pension,  and  his 
new  Abbey,  and  henceforward  the  sleeved  hand 
which  he  bore  on  his  coat-of-arms  (gules,  a  manche 
argent)  is  depicted  with  Pope  Innocent's  flower  in 
its  grasp. 

You  perceive,  then,  that  this  other  Sir  Reginald, 
whom  we  have  left  an  unconscionable  while  face  to 
face  with  Elizabeth  FitzWilliam  in  the  garden,  was 
scion  of  a  very  noble  stock  indeed.  For  a  generation 
or  two  the  Dunster  house  continued  to  increase  in 
dignities.  One  of  its  daughters  married  a  prince  of 
the  blood  royal.  The  last  of  its  sons  won  special 
favour  in  Court  and  camp,  Edward  III  including 
him  among  the  twenty-five  original  Knights  of  the 
Garter,  and  the  Black  Prince  presenting  him  with 
a  war  horse,  Grizel  Gris  by  name.  But  he  died 
without  male  issue,  and  his  widow,  Joan  de  Burg- 
hersh,  promptly  sold  the  barony  of  Dunster,  lock, 
stock  and  barrel,  to  pass  after  her  death  to  the 
Lady  Elizabeth  Luttrell.  Five  hundred  marks 
(£3>333  6s.  8d.,  an  enormous  sum  in  those  days)  was 

*  Peter's  pence. 
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NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

the  price  paid  for  the  succession  :  and  since  the 
Lady  Joan  lived  for  thirty  years  after  the  bargain, 
in  one  sense  she  had  the  better  of  it.  But  the 
Luttrells  have  made  up  for  that  trifling  delay  by 
holding  Dunster  Castle  ever  since. 

Meanwhile  our  Reginald  and  Elizabeth  had 
married  and  settled  in  the  old  Fitz William  house  of 
Hall,  here  in  the  parish  of  Lanteglos-by-Troy ;  and 
they  and  their  children  and  children's  children 
"  cultivated  their  garden,"  which  is  the  very  garden 
I  am  inviting  you  to  view.  In  Elizabeth's  time  these 
Mohuns  of  Hall  became  important,  and  built  them- 
selves a  fine  house,  shaped  like  an  E  in  compliment 
to  the  Virgin  Queen.  In  1602  Sir  Reginald  Mohun, 
Kt.,  attained  to  the  dignity  of  baronet,  and  thirty 
years  later  (in  the  fourth  of  Charles  I)  his  son,  Sir 
John,  was  created  Lord  Mohun  of  Okehampton. 
A  brass  upon  the  tomb  of  one  of  his  ancestors,  in 
Lanteglos  Church,  reads  us  the  moral,  Provideant 
cuncti,  sic  transit  gloria  mundi — "  Take  warning  all 
that  so  passes  this  world's  glory."  But  the  new 
peer  ignored  this  in  choosing  his  motto,  Generis 
revocamus  honor es. 

This  Lord  Mohun  was  one  of  Charles'  commanders 
in  the  West  during  the  Civil  War,  albeit  Clarendon 
(who  plainly  disliked  him)  hints  that  it  was  touch- 
and-go  which  cause  he  should  embrace.  Clarendon 
further  tells  us,  in  that  urbane  way  of  his,  that  the 
appointment  caused  some  indignation,  for  that  the 
Lord  Mohun  "  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  be  very 

292 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

gracious  in  his  own  country."  At  all  events,  he 
quitted  himself  well  in  the  victory  of  Stamford  Hill 
by  Stratton  :  and  in  the  later  campaign  of  the  West, 
which  ended  in  Essex  surrendering  an  army,  enter- 
tained His  Majesty  at  his  new  house  of  Boconnoc, 
some  few  miles  to  the  northward  of  the  old  family 
seat.  "  From  thence,"  I  quote  from  a  rough  diary 
kept  by  one  Richard  Symonds,  a  Royalist  lieutenant, 
"  Satterday,  17  Aug.  1644,  his  Majestie  went  to 
Lanteglos,  to  the  manor  house  belonging  to  the  Lord 
Mohun  just  over  against  Troye,  where  his  royall 
person  ventred  to  goe  into  a  walke  there  which  is 
within  halfe  musket-shott  from  Troye,  where  a  poore 
fisherman  was  killed  in  looking  over  at  the  same  time 
that  his  Majestie  was  in  the  walke,  and  in  the  place 
where  the  King  a  little  afore  passed  by."  This  walk 
runs  just  above  our  garden,  and  last  year  in  digging 
we  happened  upon  a  round  shot  of  the  period. 

I  fancy  that  Clarendon  was  not  alone  in  misliking 
Lord  Mohun,  and  that  the  race  had  already  developed 
some  of  those  unamiable  qualities  which  culminated 
in  Charles,  the  fourth  and  last  baron — "  bloody 
Mohun,"  the  villain  of  Thackeray's  Esmond.  For  his 
career  and  the  fatal  duel  with  the  Duke  of  Hamilton 
you  are  referred  to  the  pages  of  that  immortal 
novel.  He  was  a  bad  man,  and  his  wife  no  better 
a  woman  ;  who,  when  his  body  came  home,  swore  at 
the  bearers  for  making  a  nasty  mess  of  her  clean 
linen  sheets.  So  he  perished  and  went  to  his  place  : 
but  I  have  sometimes  amused  myself  with  picturing 

293 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

the  man,  on  one  of  his  infrequent  visits  to  the  family 
estate,  lolling  in  the  great  Mohun  pew — as  Carlyle 
would  put  it,  "a  blustering  dissipated  human  figure, 
with  a  kind  of  blackguard  quality  air,"  the  cynosure 
of  a  congregation  of  rustics,  his  bored  gaze  conning 
a  spot  of  red  in  the  eastern  window  of  the  south  aisle, 
where  on  a  shield  gules  a  sleeved  hand  kept  its  hold 
on  Pope  Innocent's  rose. 

He  died  without  heir,  and  his  estates — or  so  much 
of  them  as  had  escaped  the  gaming  table — were 
dispersed  ;  the  great  new  house  where  his  grandfather 
had  entertained  King  Charles  going  to  Governor  Pitt, 
who  bought  it  with  the  proceeds  of  the  famous  Pitt 
diamond.  (That  is  another  story,  as  Mr.  Kipling 
used  to  say  :  but  you  begin  to  feel  the  sense  of 
history  that  pervades  my  small  wilderness.)  The 
old  house  of  Hall,  being  sold  with  the  rest,  gradually 
declined  to  a  farmhouse,  and  its  private  chapel  to 
a  cow-byre,  where  to-day  you  may  see  the  cattle 
munching  turnips  under  a  corbelled  roof.  As  for 
the  terraced  garden,  I  have  not  been  able  to  follow 
its  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  but  imagine  that  the 
inhabitants  of  Hall — now  "  Hall  Farm  " — either 
themselves  tilled  it  neglectfully  or  let  it  out  in 
patches  to  their  labourers.  By  the  date  of  my  own 
recollections  it  had  passed  into  the  tenancy  of  one 
man,  and  was  known  as  "  Little  Tonkin's  Garden." 

The  tragedy  of  Little  Tonkin's  Garden  has  haunted 
its  way  through  more  than  one  story  of  mine.  I  can 
just  remember  the  man  as  hale  and  hearty,  a  demon 

294 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

to  work,  bald-faced,  diminutive  of  stature,  a  friend 
of  all,  and  respected  by  all.  He  "  never  spoke  out 
of  his  turn,"  as  they  say  ;  but  would  return  your 
greeting  heartily,  even  extra-heartily,  in  a  high- 
pitched  voice  that  shook  with  good  feeling.  Of 
what  that  voice  was  capable  the  whole  town  learned 
from  time  to  time,  usually  of  a  Sunday  evening, 
when  from  his  side  of  the  harbour,  where  he  dwelt 

with  an  invalid  wife  and  her  sister,  Miss  C ,  in 

a  cottage  by  the  quay,  he  spied  the  crew  of  a  foreign 
vessel  raiding  his  strawberries  or  green  peas  or  apples. 
The  voice  he  would  uplift  then,  and  continue  at 
topmost  pitch,  while  pressing  across  the  water  in 
a  boat,  had  to  be  heard  to  be  believed.  For,  apart 
from  the  care  lavished  on  his  bed-ridden  wife — his 
'  bed-rider,"  as  he  called  her — the  garden  claimed 
all  his  waking  thoughts.  And  the  strawberries  he 
grew  there  !  and  the  apples  !  not  to  mention  the 
grapes  and  peaches. 

Namque  sub  Oebaliae  memini  me  turribus  altis 
Qua  niger  umectat  flaventia  culta  Galaesus 
Corycium  vidisse  senem — 

For  once  beneath  Oebalia's  skyey  tow'rs, 

Where  black  through  yellowing  wheat  Galaesus  pours, 

I  mind  an  old  Corycian  swain  I  found, 

Lord  of  some  starveling  acres — hopeless  ground 

For  grazing,  harvestless  of  grain,  for  grape 

111  aspected.     Yet  'mid  the  briers  he  'd  scrape 

For  kale  and  herbs,  scant  poppies,  lilies  white, 

Blithe  as  a  king  !    and,  shouldering  home  at  night, 

295 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Shoot  down  an  unbought  banquet  on  the  board. 
Him  first  would  Spring  her  rose,  him  first  afford 
Autumn  her  apples.     Winter  next  unkind 
Might  split  the  rock  with  ice,  the  streamlet  bind, 
But  forth  he  'd  chirp  to  crop  the  hyacinth's  head, 
Twitting  the  tardy  heats,  the  west  wind  slug-a-bed. 

Even  such  a  man  was  Little  Tonkin — the  epitheton 
ornans  always  went  with  the  surname.  In  the  prime 
of  life  he  had  taken  tenancy  of  this  wilderness,  and 
for  years  he  grappled  with  it — hacking  down  under- 
growth, rebuilding  old  terraces  ;  digging,  weeding, 
planting,  watering ;  reclaiming  plot  after  plot, 
winning  all  the  while.  The  garden,  strange  to  say, 
was  waterless  ;  or,  to  be  accurate,  it  included  a 
square  yard  or  two  of  plashy  soil  where  some  ooze 
might  be  collected  in  a  sunken  bucket.  He  soon 
acquired  a  permanent  stoop  from  the  constant 
haulage  of  water  barrels  and  portage  of  manure  in 
"  maunds  "  or  great  wicker  baskets  up  and  down  the 
toilsome  slopes. 

I  dare  say  the  man  himself  never  knew  accurately 
when  the  tide  turned  against  him  and  the  tragedy 
began.  One  year  he  built  himself  a  vinery  ;  the 
next  a  peach-house.  After  this,  as  was  meet,  he 
took  things  easily  for  a  while  ;  yet  went  on  enlarging 
his  bounds.  Then  followed  half  a  dozen  years  during 
which  his  conquests  languished,  paused,  stood  still. 
And  then — I  have  often  wondered  at  what  point, 
in  what  form,  the  assaulted  wilderness  found  its 
Joan  of  Arc.     At  all  events  the  briers  and  brambles 

296 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

rallied  somehow,  stood  up  to  him,  pressed  in  upon 
him,  and  began  slowly  to  drive  him  back.  Poor 
Little  Tonkin  ! 

Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquer'd  thee  ! 

Even  in  the  days  when  we  children  praised  his 
strawberries — no  such  strawberries  as  Little  Tonkin's ! 
— he  was  a  beaten  man.  Year  by  year,  on  one  excuse 
or  another,  an  outpost,  a  foot  or  two,  a  rod  of  ground, 
would  be  surrendered  and  left  to  be  reclaimed  by 
the  weeds.  They  were  the  assailants  now,  and  they 
had  him  on  the  run  ;  until  there  came  a  summer  and 
found  my  friend  at  bay  in  a  small  patch  by  the 
vinery,  with  a  line  of  last  retreat  barely  open  along 
a  nettle-grown  orchard  to  the  peach-house,  once  his 
pride. 

I  may  call  him  my  friend,  for  in  those  sad  latter 
days  he  came  often  to  consult  with  me  ;  not  seeking 
help — which  indeed  could  not  have  been  offered 
without  offence  to  his  pride.  I  gathered  that,  albeit 
well-disposed  towards  everyone,  and  living  his  life 
through  among  neighbours  well  disposed  towards 
him,  he  had  never  found  one  upon  whom  he  had 
cared  to  unburden  his  heart ;  and  I  think  that  his 
wife's  long  illness  had  closed  that  best  part  of 
married  life,  the  sweet  sharing  of  troubles.  He 
could  not  at  any  rate  confide  in  her — might  not  even 
let  her  suspect — the  one  awful  shadow  of  his  life. 

She  must  die  before  him.  As  God  was  merciful 
that  must  assuredly  happen  !     Otherwise,  what  in 

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NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

the  world  would  become  of  her  ?  .  .  .  He  could  not 
tell  if  she  ever  thought  of  that ;  had  not  dared  so 
much  as  to  hint  at  it.     He  had  spoken  to  her  sister, 

Miss    C ,    about    it,    once.     He    confessed    this, 

nobly   reproaching  himself :     for   Miss   C ,    too, 

would  be  derelict  if  he  died,  and  Miss  C had  on 

her  own  part  (he  felt  sure)  a  horror  of  the  workhouse. 

Miss   C had   heartened   him   up  ;     the   invalid 

upstairs  had  never  so  much  as  hinted  at  this  dreadful 

possibility.     "  Folks  with  ailments,"  said  Miss  C 

stoically,  "  han't  got  time  for  supposin'  this  an' 
supposin'  that,  you  may  be  sure.  Put  it  that  you  'd 
been  laid  a-bed  this  score  o'  years  with  a  running 
leg  !     Come  now,  I  ask  you." 

But  I  am  morally  sure  that  the  invalid  upstairs 
lay  thinking  about  it  all  the  time.  Quite  quietly  she 
arranged  matters  in  the  end  by  dying  just  a  month 

before   her  husband  ;     and   Miss  C ,   mercifully 

broken  in  health  by  the  strain  of  nursing  the  pair, 
retired  to  the  Infirmary,  whence  up  to  the  last  she 
sent  cheerful  messages  to  her  friends  ;  for  you  can 
use  the  Infirmary  as  a  place  of  address  without  loss 
of  self-respect. 

Little  Tonkin's  Garden  went  derelict  again,  and 
for  a  year  or  so  remained  derelict. 

One  day  my  late  friend,  A.  D ,  merchant  of 

this  town,  desired  to  see  me  "  to  consult  upon  a 
small  matter  of  business  ;  which,"  the  letter  went  on 
to  say,  "  can  better  be  discussed  in  my  house  than 
in  yours."     In  any  event,   I  should  have  gone  to 

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PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

him,  knowing  that  for  some  time  he  had  been  in 
indifferent  health.  I  called  accordingly,  and  found 
him  in  his  dining-room. 

Now  A.  D 's  dining-room  window,  overlooking 

his  waterside  yard,  faced  directly  across  the  narrow 
harbour  upon  Little  Tonkin's  Garden.  "  I  have  been 
thinking  a  great  deal  about  that  garden  yonder," 

said  A.  D .     "  All  these  weeks,  sitting  here  ill, 

I  've  found  it  a  real  delight  to  the  eyes.  A  thousand 
pities  it  will  be  if  anybody  comes  along  and  breaks 
it  up  for  potatoes  or  strawberries."  "  There  's  no 
danger  of  that,  I  hope  ?  "  said  I.  "  Well,  I  've  heard 
rumours,"  said  he  ;  "  and  that  is  why  I  sent  for  you, 
knowing  how  keen  you  are  about  everything  that 's 
beautiful  in  this  place.  Couldn't  we  rent  it  together 
— the  rent  must  be  a  trifle — and  just  keep  it  as  it  is  ? 
Of  course,"  he  sighed,  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  visit 
it ;  my  heart  is  weak,  and  would  never  stand  the 
climb.  But  you  might  use  it  as  you  pleased — make 
a  playground  of  it  for  your  children.  I  know  you 
would  keep  whatever  was  worth  keeping,  and  I 
should  have  the  pleasure  of  looking  across  on  it. 
Now,  I  dare  say,"  he  added  wistfully,  "  you  think 
it  doting  of  me,  to  set  this  store  on  a  spot  just  because 
it  pleases  the  eye  ?  " 

But  I  did  not  :  and  so  it  was  agreed  that  we  should 
rent  Little  Tonkin's  Garden  together,  if  upon  inquiry 
— which  he  promised  to  make — the  price  should 
prove  to  be  moderate.  A  week  or  two  later,  however, 
he  sent  me   another  message.     The   rent  was  not 

299 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

worth  our  dividing,  and  he  proposed  (with  my  leave) 
to  become  sole  tenant,  on  the  understanding  that 
"  if  anything  happened  to  him  "  the  reversion  would 
be  mine.  Meanwhile  I  was  to  use  the  place  as  I 
chose,  and  at  any  time.  I  thanked  him,  and  straight- 
way let  the  small  compact  slip  out  of  mind. 

I  forgot  it  even  at  my  friend's  funeral,  some  months 
later  ;  and  again  when  a  key  was  brought  me  (as 
it  happened  in  the  midst  of  some  public  business) 
I  put  it  thoughtlessly  aside  in  a  drawer.  In  short 
I  had  been  tenant  of  the  Garden  for  close  upon 
six  months,  when  one  day,  as  we  rowed  beneath 
its  overhanging  trees,  Cynthia  let  fall  a  word  of 
regret  for  its  unkempt  condition,  and  for  Little 
Tonkin  and  the  strawberries  he  had  grown — mats 
oil  sont  les  /raises  d'antan  ?  or  words  to  that  effect. 
"  Heavens  !  "  I  cried,  "  and  it  belongs  to  me  I  " 
"  What !  "  shouted  the  family,  with  one  voice  ;  and 
when  I  had  made  my  halting  confession,  nothing 
would  do  but  we  must  all  land  and  explore  at  once. 
A  crazy  ladder,  slippery  with  weed,  its  lower  rungs 
rotted  by  the  tides,  led  up  alongside  Priam's  Cellars 
to  good  foothold  on  the  garden  ;  and  there  the 
brambles  met  us.  Brambles  and  blackthorns — it 
took  us  that  whole  summer  to  clear  paths  through 
the  undergrowth  and  explore  our  domain,  which 
for  the  children  was  even  such  an  enchanted  tangle 
as  held  the  Sleeping  Beauty  ;  and  every  fresh  clearing 
brought  its  joyous  surprise.  Here  the  vine,  after 
bursting  the  glass-house  and  Uttering  the  ground 

300 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

with  broken  panes,  had  lifted  its  framework  bodily 
and  carried  it  to  the  branches  of  an  ash  some  twenty 
paces  distant,  where  it  dangled  to  wind  and  rain. 
There,  stripping  the  ivies,  we  disclosed  a  terrace  wall, 
with  steps  leading  up  to  a  bastion  where  a  belvedere 
had  once  stood.  Here — its  tenement  decayed  and 
dropped  like  an  old  skirt  about  its  feet — a  peach 
tree  climbed  the  face  of  the  rock ;  while  there,  again, 
over  another  terrace,  sprawled  a  bush  of  the  Seven 
Sisters  rose,  of  a  girth  not  to  be  compassed  by  us 
though  we  tried  all  to  join  hands  around  it. 

But  best  of  all  was  our  finding  of  water. 

The  credit  of  it,  which  is  disputed  by  two  of  us, 
does  not  at  any  rate  belong  to  Euergetes  (I  call  our 
boatman  Euergetes,  because  the  name  so  differs 
from  his  real  one  that  neither  he  nor  his  family  will 
recognise  it)  ;  and  this,  although  it  was  his  foot  that, 
happening  to  sink  in  a  plashet  among  the  ferns,  put 
us  on  the  track.  When,  after  acclaiming  the  dis- 
covery, we  seized  spade  and  pick  and  began  to  dig, 
Euergetes  took  a  sardonic  view  of  the  whole  business. 
To  our  enthusiasm  he  opposed  an  indifference  in 
manner  respectful  enough,  but  deadly  critical  in 
effect  ;  would  return  to  the  subject  of  water  as  if 
by  an  effort  of  memory,  lost  no  occasion  to  leave  us 
and  resume  his  work  of  stripping  away  ivy  to  give 
the  trees  air  and  sunlight,  and  plainly  nursed  the 
pleasure  of  conveying  to  us  at  the  last  that  we  were 
all  fools,  and  he,  if  consulted,  could  have  warned  us. 

The  plashet  lay  but  a  few  yards  from  the  shallow 

301 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

pan  where  Little  Tonkin  had  collected  water  painfully 
by  sinking  a  bucket.  It  lay  also  in  a  line  between  the 
pan  and  an  outcrop  of  rock  ;  towards  which,  after 
enlarging  the  pan  to  a  well,  and  digging  it  out  to  the 
depth  of  five  feet,  we  led  our  trench.  As  we  dug,  the 
water  rose  about  our  feet — whence  it  oozed  we  could 
not  say,  for  the  subsoil  was  a  grey  lias,  very  difficult 
to  work  and  apparently  almost  watertight.  We 
indued  sea-boots  and  fishermen's  jumpers  for  the 
work  ;  and  I  recall  an  afternoon  when  in  this  costume 
I  was  haled  from  the  pit  and  carried  off  to  make  up 
the  quorum  of  an  Old  Age  Pensions  Committee. 
Before  crossing  on  this  beneficent  errand,  I  had  to 
stand  knee-deep  in  the  harbour  tide  and  lave  me. 
...  I  believe  it  was  two  days  later  that  we  tapped 
the  living  rock,  and  the  water  came  with  a  gush  (the 
thrill  of  it  !)  under  stroke  of  my  pick.  Having 
cleaned  out  a  grotto  for  the  spring,  we  arched  it 
with  stones,  and  planted  the  archway  cunningly, 
so  that  now,  after  two  years,  roses  bedrape  it — 
Hiawatha  and  Lady  Gay — and  small  ferns  thrive  in 
the  crevices,  the  asplenium  marinum  among  others 
— while  taller  ferns  crowd  the  dingle  around,  beneath 
the  shade  of  two  pear  trees.  Of  the  soil  tossed  out 
by  our  spades  we  built  a  hard  plateau  around  a 
spreading  hawthorn  ;  piped  the  overflow  of  the  well 
downhill  through  a  line  of  sunken  tubs  in  which  we 
planted  a  few  of  the  rarer  water-lilies  (the  tiny  yellow 
odorata,  with  lilacea  and  the  crimson  Froebelii),  and 
finally,  with  our  own  hands,  dug  out  and  cemented 

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PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

a  cistern  some  thirty  feet  long  on  a  lower  terrace, 
where  the  larger  white  and  yellow  lilies  already 
thrive.  Also,  we  built  a  waterfall  which  in  winter 
makes  a  passable  show  ;  but  throughout  the  summer 
the  monkey-plant  chokes  it  and  hides  the  rocks  in 
a  cascade  of  orange-scarlet.  For  the  sake  of  some 
childish  memories  I  thrust  a  few  roots  of  this  into 
the  moist  crevices,  and  lo  !  in  one  season  it  had 
ramped  over  the  slope,  choking  the  arums,  the  berga- 
mot,  the  myosotis,  and  some  rare  Japanese  irises  on 
which  my  heart  was  set.  We  tear  it  up  by  handfuls 
from  time  to  time  ;  but  it  has  taken  charge  and  will 
not  be  denied. 

Now  the  rules  of  the  garden  are  three,  and  we 
made  them  at  the  start  : — 

Rule  I. — We  do  everything  with  our  own  hands 
— be  it  forestry,  masonry,  carpentry  or  tillage.  As 
ours  is  the  well  and  the  cistern,  so  ours  is  the  table 
beneath  the  hawthorn  and  ours  are  the  garden 
seats,  whence,  at  luncheon  or  at  tea  in  the  pauses 
of  labour,  we  look  down  on  the  water-lilies  and  the 
sagged  roof  of  Priam's  Cellars  and  the  open  decks 
of  the  ships  that  lie  close  below  moored  in  tier  to 
a  great  buoy — so  close  that  one  could  almost  jerk 
a  biscuit  over  their  bulwarks.  They  are  barques 
for  the  most  part  ;  Glasgow  built,  to  ply  around  the 
Horn  ;  in  these  later  days,  by  one  of  the  freaks  of 
the  shipping  industry,  sold  away  to  Italian  firms 
and  manned  by  Italian  crews.  These  crews  are 
terrible  thieves,  by  the  way  :    but — 

303 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Rule  II. — We  resolved  to  treat  our  wilderness  as 
a  wilderness,  and  not  to  fash  ourselves  over  anv  rights 
of  property.  Decent  precautions  against  theft  we 
might  take,  and  against  trespass  ;  but  neither  theft 
nor  trespass  should  be  allowed  to  upset  our  tempers. 
To  this  resolution  we  have  kept  pretty  constant  ; 
and,  if  they  cannot  quite  understand  us,  the  crews 
of  these  vessels  are  coming  to  know  us.  For  an 
instance — the  season  before  last  was  a  great  one 
for  apples,  and  it  occurred  to  us  to  fill  a  couple  of 
maunds  and  carry  them  off  to  the  crew  of  the  Nostra 
Signora  del  Rosario,  anchored  below  ;  a  light- 
hearted  crowd  that,  to  the  strains  of  a  mandolin, 
had  delighted  us  through  one  Sunday  afternoon  by 
their  dancing.  At  first,  as  we  rowed  alongside,  they 
did  not  understand  ;  they  waved  us  off  ;  they  were 
not  buying.  When  in  broken  English,  mixed  up 
with  the  recollections  of  Dante,  I  managed  to  convey 
to  them  that  the  apples  were  a  gift  for  their  kindly 
acceptance,  all  caps  flew  off.  But  the  best  happened 
some  ten  days  later  when,  reading  a  book  in  my  own 
garden  lower  down  the  harbour,  I  looked  up  to  see 
an  Italian  barque  passing  seaward  in  charge  of  a  tug, 
and  dipping  her  flag  ;  whereupon,  dropping  Calderon, 
I  hurried  to  my  own  flagstaff  and  dipped  the  British 
ensign,  and  the  vivas  of  the  Nostra  Signora  del 
Rosario  floated  back  to  me  as  she  met  the  Channel 
tide. 

Our  Third  Rule  (I  maintain,  a  wise  one)  is  to  weep 
over  no  loss  that  we  have  planted,  but  simply  to 

304 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

plant  for  thriving,  and  thereafter  let  each  root  do 
the  best  it  can.  For  roses  we  use  the  free-growing, 
not  to  say  rampant,  kinds  :  Penzance  sweet-briers, 
Wichurianas  and  the  like,  with  such  old  favourites 
as  Dundee  Rambler,  Carmine  Pillar,  the  Garland.  In 
the  rock  garden,  one  of  our  newer  toys,  the  plants 
are  hardy,  as  the  rock  is  as  Nature  placed  it,  creviced 
it,  ribbed  it.  Cistus  you  will  find  there,  with 
helianthemums,  heaths,  foxgloves,  tall  daisies ; 
creeping  sedums,  veronicas ;  pockets  of  purple 
aubretia,  yellow  alyssum,  white  arabis  ;  but  none 
of  the  expensive  alpines  dear  to  amateurs.  To  be 
sure  we  free  our  fruit-trees  from  the  strangling 
creepers,  and  trench  and  clean  the  ground  for  sweet 
peas,  as  for  the  strawberries,  which  I  dare  say  our 
children  find  as  delectable  in  flavour  as  ever  we  found 
Little  Tonkin's.  But  our  interference  with  Nature 
does  not  amount  to  much  ;  and  all  the  flowers  we 
train  add  but  a  grace  to  the  feast  of  wild-flowers  she 
spreads  for  us,  the  sheets  of  primroses,  wild  hyacinth, 
red  robin,  lady-smocks,  blue  scabious,  succeeding 
the  snowdrops  and  daffodils  left  by  Little  Tonkin 
for  us  to  inherit.     He  lives  in  the  garden  still — 

Aestatem  increpitans  seram  zephyrosque  morantes — 

We  are  constantly  happening  on  reminders — a  golden 
or  crimson  garden  primrose  among  the  pale  wild 
ones,  a  Sweet-William  standing  tall  and  alone  in  the 
grasses,  a  columbine,  a  Jacob's-ladder — that  he, 
gentle  soul,  has  passed  this  way. 


305 
20 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Here,  then,  amid  all  this  unbought  wealth,  I  sit — 
preferably  by  the  pool  whence  the  water  trickles — 
and,  musing  on  the  many  who  have  walked  in  this 
garth,  under  these  orchard  boughs,  glad  to 

hold  a  green  earth  leased 
Briefly  between  two  shades — 

break  off  to  watch  a  blue-finch  taking  his  bath,  or 
a  wren  feeding  her  young  in  a  cranny  of  the  stones 
(having  overcome  her  fear  of  me,  so  quiet  I  sit)  ; 
while  the  runnel  keeps  its  murmur,  and  still  from 
distant  parts  of  the  garden  the  children's  voices 
come  borne  to  me.  Their  voices  have  deepened 
in  tone,  as  their  hands  have  grown  stronger  and  more 
skilful  with  bill-hook,  spade,  digger,  since  first  they 
ran  shouting  upon  this  undiscovered  country.  .  .  . 
I  remember  paying  a  visit  once  to  a  friend — an  old 
clergyman — in  the  north  of  Cornwall.  In  the 
twilight  before  dinner  he  took  me  forth  to  show  me 
his  garden.  The  flowers  grew  valiantly  in  it — as 
valiantly  as  ever  ;  but  every  turn  of  the  path,  every 
clearing,  brought  me  face  to  face  with  something 
fallen  to  ruin — a  summer-house,  a  swing,  an  arbour 
collapsed  among  the  honeysuckle.  My  host  had 
his  explanation  for  each.  "  Dick  and  Grace  built 
this  swing."  "  I  put  this  up  soon  after  we  came 
here,  when  my  two  eldest  were  children."  "  Ruth 
had  a  fancy  to  sling  a  hammock  here."  "  Harry 
made  this  seat  as  a  birthday  present  for  his  mother." 
.    .    .    But  Harry,  Dick,  Ruth,  Grace,  and  the  rest 

306 


PRIAM'S    CELLARS 

had  grown  up  years  ago,  and  married  and  settled 
afar.  Three  of  the  boys  had  emigrated  ;  three — 
two  girls  and  a  boy — were  dead. 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledg'd  bird's  nest,  may  know 

At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

"  In  last  year's  nests,"  said  Don  Quixote,  dying, 
"  you  look  not  for  this  year's  birds."  So  no  doubt 
it  will  happen  again,  as  it  has  happened  often  before, 
in  Little  Tonkin's  Garden.  But  meantime  the  after- 
noon sun  is  warm.     I  shall  have  had  my  day. 


307 


On  a  Marble  Stair 


I  can't  afford  a  mile  of  sward, 

Parterres  and  peacocks  gay  ; 
For  velvet  lawns  and  marble  fauns 

Mere  authors  cannot  pay. 

But  I  possess  a  Marble  Stair. 

A  stair,  I  say  ;  not  a  staircase.  The  late  Mr.  Dan 
Leno,  of  pleasant  memory,  had  a  song  upon  the 
amenities  of  his  place  of  residence,  and,  as  was 
customary  with  him,  interspersed  the  melody  with 
passages  of  joyous  prose.  "  There  's  a  river,  and 
trees,  at  the  bottom  of  my  garden,"  he  would  tell 
us  expansively  ;  and  then,  checking  himself,  with  a 
look  of  anxious  candour,  "  Well  yes,  in  a  way  the 
river  's  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  ;  but  most  of 
the  time  the  garden  's  at  the  bottom  of  the  river." 
(A  pause,  a  quick  inward  struggle,  and  more  candour.) 
"  When  I  say  '  river  '  it 's  not — altogether — what 
you  might  call  a  river  ;  it  's — it  's — er — it 's  the 
overflow  from  the  gasworks.  .  .  .  And  the  trees  ? 
Well,  they  are  trees  ;  but  split,  if  you  take  me  ; 
palings ;     er— in    fact,    they  're     a     bill-hoarding.' * 

3°9 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Even  so  might  I  proceed  and  confess  that  my  Marble 
Stair  is  only  the  half  of  a  garden  step,  and  a  back 
garden  step  at  that.  But  it  is  of  marble  ;  and 
moreover  from  this  sequestered  platform,  without 
aspiring  like  Archimedes  to  move  the  world,  I  can 
at  any  time  project  myself  like  a  bold  diver  into  the 
great  mundane  movement. 

But  to  understand  this,  and  other  magical 
properties  of  my  Marble  Stair,  you  must  first  hear 
how  I  came  by  it. 

Not  long  ago  I  discoursed  of  a  wilderness  garden 
called  Priam's  Cellars,  and  mentioned,  as  no  small 
part  of  its  charm,  the  tier  of  shipping  that  lies 
moored  in  deep  water,  yet  close  under  the  cliff.  Of 
these  vessels  by  far  the  most  beautiful  are  the 
barques — Scottish-built  and  Italian-owned — which 
come  to  us  in  ballast,  and  depart  with  cargoes  of 
china  clay  for  the  Mediterranean.  They  are  not  only 
beautiful  in  themselves  :  in  our  eyes  they  wear  a 
double  beauty  because  we  are  so  soon  to  lose  them. 
It  is  but  a  few  years  since  they  began  to  visit  us. 
In  a  very  few  years  they  will  have  vanished  utterly 
— perished  from  off  the  seas. 

To  tell  at  length  why  they  visit  us  and  why, 
under  our  eyes,  they  are  perishing,  would  be  to 
write  a  curious  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  world's 
mercantile  marine.  Briefly,  it  has  all  come  about 
through  the  Panama  Canal.  These  most  shapely 
craft,  varying  in  size  from  six  hundred  to  two 
thousand  tons,  were  all  launched  from  the  Clyde  to 

310 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

sail  around  Cape  Horn  and  make  money  for  British 
owners.  In  them  the  winged  spirit  of  the  sailing 
ship  lingers  out,  surviving  only  because  steamships 
cannot  profitably  stow  the  coal  necessary  for  so  far 
a  voyage.  But  the  Panama  Canal  will  soon  be  cut  ; 
and  then  farewell  to  tall  masts,  sails,  rigging,  all  the 
lovely  vision  ! 

But  what  do  the  survivors  here,  under  the  Italian 
flag? 

Why,  as  the  day  of  Panama  approaches,  British 
owners  are  selling  them  as  fast  as  they  can.  And 
the  Italians  (or,  to  speak  more  particularly,  the 
Genoese)  are  buying  ;  for  sundry  reasons,  of  which 
two  may  be  mentioned,  (i)  These  blue-water  ships 
have  a  considerable  draught,  and  would  be  useless 
for  traffic  in  shallow  seas  such  as  the  Baltic  ;  whereas 
the  Mediterranean  ports  are  deep  and  can  accommo- 
date them.  But  (2)  actually  the  Italian  purchaser 
does  not  propose  to  employ  them  for  more  than  a 
voyage  or  two.  The  cunning  fellow  has  discovered 
that  while  his  Government  levies  a  crippling  duty  on 
imported  iron,  iron  imported  in  the  shape  of  a  ship  is 
allowed  to  escape  the  tax  ;  and  so  the  noble  hull, 
riding  here  so  swan-like — "  a  thing  of  life  " — has  hei 
sentence  already  written.  A  short  respite  there 
may  be  :  but  she  goes  to  Genoa  to  be  slaughtered, 
smashed  up  into  old  iron,  which,  having  passed  under 
the  rollers,  will  be  re-issued  almost  as  good  as  new 
— and  considerably  cheaper. 

A  fair  number  of  these  barques  keep  their  original 

311 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Scottisli  names  ;  possibly  because  the  Italian  firms 
have  caught  hold  of  our  northern  superstition  that 
it  is  unlucky  to  re-christen  a  ship.  On  my  list  of 
them  I  find  the  Banffshire  (800  tons),  the  Loch  Etive 
(1230),  the  tall  Cressington  (2053),  the  Bass  Rock 
(999),  the  King  Malcolm  (whose  tonnage  I  forget), 
the  Emma  Parker  (1157) — all  of  Genoa.  (The 
Emma  Parker  has  a  skipper  named  Angelico,  and 
carries  a  dolphin's  tail  for  a  talisman  on  her  bowsprit 
end.)  But  the  most  of  them  have  been  re-baptized  : 
the  Pellegrina  0.  (1507),  the  Maria  Teresa  (1772), 
the  Giacomo  (1295),  the  Pcnthesilea  (1661),  the 
Giuseppe  d'Abunda  (993),  the  Nostra  Signora  del 
Rosario  (899),  the  Santa  Chiara  and  Precursore  M. 
[both  of  674)  ;  the  Bettinin  Accame  (967),  Checco 
(798),  Avante  Savona  (1283) — all  Clyde-built  ;  all 
manned  now  by  Italians,  who  on  Sunday  afternoons 
dance  upon  deck  to  the  strains  of  fiddle  and  accordion, 
to  delight  us  as  we  sit  looking  down  from  the  terraced 
garden  like  gods  on  Olympus. 

They  are  pleasant  fellows,  these  Italian  seamen, 
but  terrible  apple-stealers  ;  and  I  confess  this 
Olympian  or  (shall  I  say  ?)  Phseacian  atmosphere  was 
shaken  the  other  day  by  a  severe  thunderstorm  on 
my  discovery  that  a  small  but  promising  orchard  had 
been  stripped  to  its  last  fruit.  Ulysses  came  alone 
to  Phasacia,  you  will  remember,  having  lost  all  his 
mariners  by  shipwreck  ;  else  I  wonder  what  would 
have  happened  in  that  famous  garden  of  King 
Alcinous,   where   grew   tall   trees   blossoming,   pear 

312 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

trees  and  pomegranates,  and  apples  with  bright  fruit> 
and  sweet  figs  and  olives  in  their  bloom. 

The  fruit  of  these  trees  never  perisheth  neither 
faileth,  winter  nor  summer,  enduring  through  all  the 
year.  Evermore  the  west  wind  blowing  brings  some 
fruits  to  birth  and  ripens  others.  Pear  upon  pear 
waxes  old,  and  apple  on  apple,  yea  and  cluster  ripens 
upon  cluster  of  the  grape,  and  fig  upon  fig. 

And  there,  as  you  remember  too,  King  Alcinous 
reclined  in  his  chair  and  drank  wine  like  an 
immortal  : 

Tip  o  <ye  oivoirora^ei  e^ij/nevot  a6avn.70<i  ws. 

(a  truly  royal  picture),  while  beside  him  his  queen, 
having  taken  her  work  out  to  the  garden,  "  sat 
weaving  yarn  of  sea-purple  stain,  a  wonder  to 
behold  "  .  .  .  I  am  very  sure  that  my  Italian 
visitors  would  never  have  spared  those  trees  :  and 
the  Greeks,  they  sa5r,  are  worse  apple-stealers  than 
the  Italians — the  worst  in  the  world,  in  fact,  with 

the  single   exception    of   my   friend  Mr.  A.   G 

and  his  crew  of  yachtsmen,  who  as  pillagers 'of 
orchards  are  admittedly  hors  concours. 

The  King  sits  in  Phceacia  toun 

Drinking  the  blude-red  wine  ; 
'  0  what  I  will  give  this  skeely  skipper  ? 

A  seven  days,  or  a  fine  ? 

It  sail  be  ten-and-six,  and-six, 

But    and    the    costs    forbye.     .     .     .' 

3*3 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

Cynthia  and  Euergetes  (I  call  onr  boatman 
Euergetes  because  it  is  not  his  real  name  nor  anything 
like  it)  clamoured  for  an  instant  call  on  the  police  and 
revenge  by  legal  process.  I  cleared  my  throat  and 
thus  addressed  them  :  "  Cynthia,"  said  I,  "  and  you, 
Euergetes,  be  good  enough  to  remember  that  when 
we  took  over  the  tenancy  of  this  plot  one  of  our 
first  resolutions  was  to  keep  an  equable  mind,  no 
matter  what  we  might  be  called  upon  to  suffer  in  the 
way  of  trespass."  But  this  (urged  Cynthia)  was 
stealing,  and  moreover  forbidden  in  the  Bible,  not 
to  mention  the  Ante-Communion  Service  ;  while 
Euergetes  at  once  fetched  up  that  masking  smile  of 
his  which  conveys  quite  respectfully,  yet  as  plainly 
as  words  could  put  it,  that  I  am  about  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself.  I  accepted  the  challenge  as  usual. 
'  Euergetes,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  brave  man  in  some 
respects  :  but  in  the  matter  of  snakes  I  think  you 
are  the  biggest  coward  known  to  me.  Last  week 
you  spied  a  solitary  adder  in  this  garden  " — here 
Euergetes  looked  around  him  — "  and  had  to 
go  home  incontinently  and  change  your  trousers, 
so  certain  were  you  that  they  harboured  the  rest 
of  the  brood."  Euergetes  admitted  that  snakes 
went  against    nature  to    a  man    bred  on    the    sea. 

The  Ancient  Mariner,"  said  I,  "  blessed  them  once, 
in  a  passage  of  remarkable  beauty  ;  but  I  take  you 
at  your  word.  You  shall  paint  a  notice-board 
warning  these  seamen  that  this  garden  fairly  teems 


3H 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

"  with  snakes."     And  I  sketched  out  the  following 
advertisement : 


TO    MARINERS 


NOTICE     IS     HEREBY     GIVEN    that    these 

GROUNDS    SHELTER    A    NURSERY    OF    SERPENTS,    TO 

BE    HAD    FOR    THE    TROUBLE    OF    TAKING    AWAY,    AS 

OWNER    HAS    GIVEN    UP    COLLECTING. 

AMONG     THE     SPECIES     REPRESENTED     ARE  : 

SCORPION    AND     ASP     (NAMED     VARIETIES). 
AMPHISB^NA    DIRE  : 
CERASTES    (HORNED),   HYDRUS  \ 
ELOPS     DREAR      (EARLY,      PROLIFIC)  ; 
AND     DIPSAS     (RECOMMENDED). 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  X. 


Inspection  Invited. 


"  But,"  objected  Cynthia,  "  I  have  heard  you  say 
the  most  dreadful  things  about  landlords  and  others 
who  decorate  the  country  with  notice-boards." 
"  True,"  said  I,  "  and  this  one  might  help  to  discredit 
a  bad  custom.  It  is  one  of  the  uses  of  ridicule." 
"  The  bad  custom  we  want  to  correct  just  now," 
she  retorted,  "  is  the  custom  of  stealing  our  apples." 
She  gazed  down  with  disapproval  on  the  deck  of  the 
Italian,  where  a  half-dozen  swarthy  villains  were 
turning   a  winch  very  half-heartedly,   drawing  up 

3*5 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

basketfuls  of  ballast  from  the  hold.  Two  men  stood 
by  the  bulwarks  to  handle  the  basket  and  tip  its 
contents  down  a  wooden  chute  overside,  whence  it 
fell  with  a  rush  into  the  Harbour  Commissioners' 
ballast  lighter.  I  watched  this  operation  for  some 
moments,  and  two  things  struck  me  ;  of  which  the 
first  was  that  the  two  Cornish  lightermen,  whose 
business  it  was  to  receive  this  ballast  and  pack  it 
away  smoothly  with  their  long-handled  shovels,  kept 
easily  ahead  of  the  eight  men  on  deck,  not  to  speak 
of  the  unseen  workers  in  the  hold.  I  pointed  this 
out  to  Euergetes,  who  answered  that  it  was  a  poor 
job  at  which  two  of  our  fellows  couldn't  keep  pace 
with  a  dozen  foreigners.  Now  Euergetes,  whatever 
his  faults,  is  no  vocal  patriot,  inclining  rather  to  be 
most  caustic  upon  that  portion  of  mankind  with 
which  he  is  best  acquainted — so  much  so,  indeed, 
that  if  ever  he  lays  down  his  life  for  us  it  will  be 
entirely  for  the  sake  of  our  shortcomings.  It 
surprised  me,  therefore,  to  hear  his  testimonial  to  two 
working  men  with  whom  I  knew  him  to  be  on 
neighbourly  terms  ;  but  "  It  's  the  food,"  he 
explained.     "  What  they  give  these  foreign  crews  to 

eat  on  board  wouldn't  put  heart  into  a "     Here 

he  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  He  had  been  about  to 
say  "  rabbit  "  ;  but  there  were  nets  to  be  hauled 
that  evening,  and  (as  every  Cornishman  knows)  if 
he  had  once  uttered  that  ill-omened  word,  good-bye 
to  all  chance  of  fish  !  He  substituted  "  cat." 
"  But,"  objected  Cynthia,  "  that  doesn't  account  for 

316 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

it  at  all ;  because  these  men  have  been  eating  our 
apples,  and  the  very  best."  "  Then,"  I  hazarded, 
"  perhaps  they  are  suffering  from  incipient  gastritis. 
We  must  account  for  it  somehow."  "  At  any  rate," 
she  replied  with  calm,  "  they  seem  to  be  working 
harder  than  any  of  us,  at  this  moment  "  ;  whereat  in 
some  haste  Euergetes  took  up  his  mattock  and  went 
off  to  dig  potatoes. 

After  a  pause  Cynthia  suggested  that,  if  I  didn't 
mean  to  take  the  boat  and  row  off  for  the  police, 
there  were  some  roses  that  badly  needed  an  autumn 
pruning  ;  an  infelicitous  reminder  as  it  turned  out, 
and  as  you  shall  learn.  For  just  at  that  moment 
I  had  made  my  second  observation — that  the 
Italian's  ballast  seemed  to  consist  largely  of  cinders 
and  small  ashes.  Now,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
ships  do  not  usually  employ  ashes  for  ballast.  .  .  . 
Just  as  I  started  to  wonder  at  it  Cynthia's  interruption 
shook  these  ashes  out  of  my  mind  as  through  a  sieve. 

But  I  had  no  intention  at  all  of  rowing  off  for  the 
police.  "  The  Nostra  Signora  del  Rosario  ?  '  said 
I,  reading  the  barque's  name.  "  Now  I  have  a 
mind  to  put  off  and  treat  her  crew  to  a  sermon  on  that 
name  ;  since,  as  it  happens,  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary 
has  a  particular  interest  in  thieves  and  the  gallows. 
If  you  ever  designed  to  read  my  published  works 
you  would  know  that  there  is  a  story  to  that  effect 
in  the  second  chapter  of  Sir  John  Constantine. 
I  found  it  in  a  commonplace  book  of  Southey's, 
who  got  it  from  Vieyra  ;    and  mine  was  a  short, 

3*7 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

rough  rendering.  But  I  have  since  discovered  that 
it  forms  the  theme  of  a  beautiful  story  by  the 
Portuguese  writer  Eca  de  Oueiroz  (he  called  it 
Defunto,  and  it  has  been  translated  into  English, 
under  the  title  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Pillar,  by  Mr. 
Edgar  Prestage,  of  the  Lisbon  Royal  Academy). 
Briefly,  the  story  tells  that  a  young  hidalgo,  riding 
by  night  to  keep  an  assignation  with  a  lady  whose 
lover  he  had  hopes  to  be " 

"  Do  you  propose  telling  this  story  to  the 
Italians  ?  "  interrupted  Cynthia. 

"  It  is,"  I  assured  her,  "  as  full  of  morals  as  an 
egg  of  meat.  To  resume — this  young  hidalgo  on 
his  road  happened  to  pass  a  gallows  from  which  four 
corpses  hung,  and  was  pricking  past  when  a  voice  said 
to  him, '  Stay,  knight ;  come  hither  ! '  And  it  goes  on 
to  tell  how,  being  assured  that  the  voice  had  proceeded 
thence,  he  rode  up  under  the  gallows  and  demanded 
to  know  '  Which  of  you  hanged  men  calls  for  Don 
Ruy  de  Cardenas  ?  '  Whereupon  (says  the  narra- 
tive) one  of  them,  that  swung  with  his  back  to  the 
full  moon,  replied — speaking  down  from  the  noose 
very  quietly  and  naturally,  like  a  man  talking  from 
his  window  to  the  street,  '  It  was  I,  sir.  Do  me  the 
favour  to  cut  this  cord  by  which  I  am  suspended, 
and  afterwards  light  the  small  heap  of  twigs  by  your 
feet  that  I  may  warm  myself  back  to  life  and  run 
beside  you  to  your  mistress  :  for  my  limbs  are  stiff.' 
The  young  knight,  then,  having  cut  down  the  corpse 
— for  a  corpse  it  was " 

318 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

"  And  this,"  broke  in  Cynthia,  "  is  positively  the 
nastiest  story  I  have  ever  listened  to.  .  .  .  And 
if  you  won't  fetch  the  police,  I  am  off  to  my  roses." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  I.  "  These  countrymen 
of  Dante,  these  mariners  from  the  port  of  Columbus, 
must  have  their  better  instincts,  and  to  them  let  us 
appeal.  They  have  pretty  certainly  stolen  our 
apples,  and  in  large  quantities  :  but  they  have  left 
us  plenty  and  to  spare.  Come,  let  us  carry  them 
a  maundful  as  a  free  gift ! — and  I  will  lay  you  odds 
that  they  show  themselves  honest  fellows." 

Cynthia  shook  her  head. 

"  Honest  fellows  don't  climb  other  folks'  apple 
trees." 

"  Not  often.  Dante,  indeed,  has  been  before 
you  in  noting  it. 

Rade  volte  risurgi   per  li  rami 
L'umana  probitate. 

And  yet,"  I  added,  with  a  sigh  for  lost  youth,  "  we 
may  happen  up  such  trees  on  our  way  to  honesty — or 
God  help  most  English  boys  !  " 

The  end  was  that  we  filled  a  '  maund '  (deep 
apple  basket)  and  put  off  with  it  to  the  Nostra 
Signora  del  Rosario.  There  was  no  hope  to 
dodge  Euergetes,  no  matter  in  what  corner  of  the 
garden  we  might  invent  occupation  for  him  :  for 
nothing  escapes  his  cunning  subdolent  eye.  But 
we  could  dumbfounder  him  by  an  act  of  open 
lunacy,  and  for  the  fun  of  this  Cynthia  joined  the 

3i9 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

plot.  We  took  a  second  and  smaller  basketful  to 
propitiate  the  lightermen. 

The  Italians  dropped  their  work  as  we  came 
alongside  and  hailed  them.  They  made  no  difficulty 
at  all  about  dropping  their  work.  But  when  we  asked 
in  English  and  again  in  our  best  Italian  (which  is  the 
worst)  if  they  would  do  us  the  favour  to  accept  some 
apples,  they  stared  down  and  at  one  another  and 
laughed,  and  answered  (shaking  their  heads)  that 
they  were  not  buying  any.  "  No,  my  friends,  and 
good  reason  for  why,"  I  murmured,  but  persisted 
aloud,  "  E  dono. — Corban — it  is  a  gift  !  "  It  was  fun 
(as  Cynthia  afterwards  allowed)  to  note  the  glances 
that  passed  between  them  and  the  shamefaced 
laughter  that  mingled  with  their  polite  expressions 
of  thanks  as  they  lowered  the  empty  ballast  basket 
to  receive  the  apples  I  poured  into  it  from  the 
maund  ;  and  the  fun  was  doubled  as,  glancing  up 
and  over  my  shoulder  as  the  filling  went  on,  I  caught 
sight  of  Euergetes  on  a  high  terrace,  resting  on  his 
mattock  and  contemplating  us. 

Now  you  may  urge  (as  Cynthia  urged  once  or  twice 
that  evening)  that  the  whole  business,  since  it  did 
not  even  force  a  confession,  was  as  lunatic  as  it 
appeared  to  Euergetes.     But  wait  ! 

A  week  or  so  later,  sitting  by  my  window  here,  I 
heard  a  confused  noise  of  cheering,  and  looked  up  to 
catch  sight  of  the  Nostra  Signora  del  Rosario,  laden, 
passing  down  to  sea  in  the  wake  of  our  harbour  tug. 
Her  crew  were  waving  hats  and  shouting  vivas  ;  and  as 

320 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

the  calls  of  my  family  fetched  me  forth,  and  it  broke 
on  me  that  this  flattering  demonstration  must  be 
meant  for  us,  I  saw  the  Italian  tricolor  dipping  and 
rising  on  the  halliards  of  the  barque's  crossjack-yard. 
There  was  a  fresh  outbreak  of  cheering  as  I  ran  to 
my  own  flagstaff  and  dipped  the  British  ensign  in 
response  ;  and  so  the  Nostra  Signora  del  Rosario 
passed  out  to  sea  and  faded  away,  a  thing  of  beauty. 

"  She  never  came  back,  she  never  came  back," 
any  more  than  the  various  animals  in  Lear's  haunting 
lyric.  At  Genoa  they  broke  up  her  beauty  for  old 
iron,  and  you  may  jump  to  the  suspicion  that  her 
crew  were  merely  bidding  a  boisterous  farewell  to 
a  fool.  But  wait  again  ...  I  have  a  notion  that 
these  men,  separated  and  drafted  into  various  other 
Italian  vessels,  must  have  returned  to  us  many 
times,  or  at  any  rate  must  have  spread  some 
mysterious  masonic  word  through  the  Italian 
mercantile  marine.  I  begin  to  think  so  because  not 
only  have  our  apples  been  immune  ever  since,  but 
the  crews  of  all  these  barques  have  ever  since  treated 
us  with  the  j oiliest  politeness.  We  are  positively 
afraid,  now,  to  let  our  dinghy  get  left  for  a  few 
moments  by  the  tide,  lest  on  Cynthia's  re-appearance 
at  the  landing  quay  a  boat's  crew  of  these  merry 
ruffians  push  off  to  the  help  of  la  donna— help  of 
which  she  has  (despite  all  I  can  say)  the  liveliest 
horror. 

Do  you  complain  that  in  the  narrative   I  have 

321 
21 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

rambled  far  from  the  Marble  Stair  from  which  I 
started  ?  Wait  yet  once  again,  for  I  am  returning 
to  it,  and  the  thrill  in  my  narrative  has  yet  to  come. 

It  happened  that,  some  weeks  before,  I  had  called 
in  my  friend  H.  H.,  mason,  to  repair — or  rather,  to 
rebuild — a  back  stairway  in  the  garden.  The  job 
was  to  be  a  rough  one — that  is  to  say,  I  wished  the 
stone  to  be  so  laid  that  one  could  plant  sedums, 
stone-crops,  and  the  like  in  the  crevices  ;  and  after 
a  brief  talk  I  left  it  to  him  to  find  the  material. 

He  fell  to  work  in  due  course,  and  sent  in  word  to 
me  at  breakfast  one  morning  that  he  had  fairly  started 
and  would  like  my  opinion  on  the  stones  he  was  using. 
I  lit  a  pipe  and  went  out  to  examine  them. 

"  First-class  stones,"  said  I.  "  But  where  did  you 
pick  them  up  ?  "—for  the  step  he  was  laying  was 
composed  of  wrought  slabs  of  a  drab  colour,  and  in 
texture  somewhat  like  the  Caen  stone  the  old  builders 
imported  for  our  churches.  A  quarry  of  it  anywhere, 
in  our  neighbourhood,  would  be  beyond  price  :  but 
obviously  these  slabs  came  from  no  quarry  direct. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  answered  and  with  some  pride, 
"  off  the  Italian  that  went  out  two  days  ago." 

"  Ballast  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Ballast,"  said  he  ;  and  for  the  moment  I  took 
it  for  no  more  than  a  pleasant  windfall.  All  these 
Italians,  and  various  other  vessels,  come  to  us  with 
ballast  ;  and  I  laugh  still  as  I  remember  my  late 
good  friend  A.  B.  (a  Cambridge  man,  learned  in 
most  subjects  and  not  without  skill  in  geology)  going 

322 


ON    A    MARBLE    STAIR 

almost  on  hands  and  knees  before  a  heap  of  road 
metal  and  demanding  to  know  where  the  devil  these 
particular  fossils  found  themselves  in  Cornwall  ? 
They  had  been  carted  up,  a  week  before,  from  the 
hold  of  a  French  schooner. 

My  visitors  get  these  surprises  from  time  to  time. 
Here  I  again  intercept  my  climax  with  the  story  of 
another  Cambridge  man,  whom  I  had  led  for  a  walk 
through  woods  where  bamboos  were  among  the 
commonest  of  exotic  growths.  "  A  stranger,"  said 
he  with  the  accent  of  conviction,  as  we  left  the  woods 
and  regained  the  highway,  "  might  easily  suppose 
himself  in  the  tropics  " — and,  as  he  said  those  veiy 
words,  we  rounded  a  corner  of  the  road  and  came  on 
an  elephant !  It  was  a  real  elephant,  placidly  sucking 
up  water  from  a  wayside  pool ;  and  of  a  sudden 
I  understood  what  hysteria  means,  yet  kept  sufficient 
grip  on  it  to  steer  him  wide  of  a  travelling  circus 
which  had  encamped  in  a  neighbouring  field. 

To  resume — "  It  's  a  pretty  stone,  sir,"  said  my 
friend  H.  H.,  "  and,  I  should  say,  came  out  of  a 
fine  building.  But  here 's  something  better  still." 
He  brushed  the  dust  and  grit  carefully,  with  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  from  a  block  he  was  preparing  to  lay. 

"  Hullo  !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  Marble  ?  " 

"  White  marble,  sir." 

"  From  the  same  ship  ?     .     .     .    What  ship  ?  " 

H.  H.  could  not  tell  me  her  heathen  name  :  but 
of  course  it  was  the  Nostra  Signora  del  Rosario. 
"  And  the  stones  were  all  mixed  up  with  a  terrible 

323 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

lot  of  ashes.     Smell  ?     .     .     .     My  word,  how  those 
ashes  smelt  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said  I,  and  went  off  to  seek  the 
Harbour  Master,  who  is  another  friend  of  mine.  "  Tell 
me — where  was  the  Nostra  Signora  likely  to  have 
picked  up  that  ballast  she  brought  in  the  other  day  ?  " 

The  Harbour  Master  took  down  his  great  ledger, 
opened  it,  found  the  page,  and  ran  his  finger  down  the 
column  headed  "  Port  of  Sailing."  The  finger  came 
to  a  halt  and  I  read — 

"  Messina." 

I  shall  not  moralise  this  story,  or  write  pages  on 
the  thesis,  It  is  a  bad  earthquake — and  Messina's 
was  a  hideous  one — that  brings  nobody  good. 
Rich  men  may  decorate  their  houses  with  Egyptian 
porphyries,  Spanish  broccatello,  green  Carystian, 
orange  of  Verona,  rosso  antico  and  the  rest.  But 
mine  is  one  marble  stair,  one  white  stone  of  the  true 
romance.  It  is  very  small  (it  measures  no  more 
than  fifteen  inches  by  twelve)  ;  but  I  can  stand  on 
it  ;  and  the  stairway  so  closely  overhangs  the  sea 
that,  had  I  the  skill,  I  could  take  a  naked  dive  from 
it  of  fifty  feet  sheer.  From  what  palace  it  was 
dislocated  I  shall  never  know,  any  more  than  I  shall 
know  how  many  of  its  companions,  shot  amid  the 
ashes  of  a  Sicilian  city,  have  been  carried  out  and 
dropped  for  ever  beneath  these  Cornish  waters. 
But  this  one  survives  :  it  is  mine.  "  Which  things  " 
— although  the  story  is  true — 

"  Which    things    are    an    allegory,  Philip  !  " 

324 


The    Election    Count 


Polling-day  was  wet  and  depressing  to  the  last 
degree  :  wet  and  doubly  depressing  as  hour  after 
hour  weighted  my  sense  that  we  were  steadily  losing 
ground.  In  the  shop-parlour,  which  served  us  for 
Liberal  Committee-room,  someone  had  blocked  up 
half  the  small  window  with  a  poster.  It  exhibited 
to  the  street  the  picture  of  an  old  couple,  Darby  and 
Joan,  seated  beside  their  cottage-porch,  embowered 
in  roses  and  basking  (thanks  to  Old  Age  Pensions) 
in  the  golden  rays  of  a  setting  sun.  It  was  a  pleasing 
composition,  even  when  studied  in  reverse  as  a 
transparency  ;  but  it  darkened  the  parlour.  In  this 
atmosphere  of  "  inspissated  gloom  "  our  two  volunteer 
clerks  worked  with  set  faces  at  the  register,  ruling  out 
the  voters — red  pencil  for  Liberals,  blue  for  Unionists, 
black  for  Doubtfuls — as  messengers  ran  in  with  the 
returns.  On  the  whole  these  returns  were  satis- 
factory. In  our  own  small  polling-district  we  felt 
reasonably  sure  of  getting  our  "  reliables  "  (abomin- 
able word)  to  the  poll  in  strength.  But  ours  is  no 
very  populous  one,   and  lies  at  the  extreme   west 

325 


NI'WS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

of  the  constituency ;  from  the  other  end  came 
disquieting  rumours,  some  even  talking  of  a 
"  land-slide." 

"  Hullo  !  "  says  one  of  the  clerks,  looking  out  over 
the  Darby  and  Joan  poster.  "  There  goes  Polly 
\V up  the  hill  with  a  bouquet." 

"  That  's  for  the  Women's  Committee  to  present 
to  Lady  Caroline."  (Lady  Caroline  is  the  wife  of 
our  opponents'  candidate,  the  Admiral.)  "  They  're 
due  there  soon  after  midday." 

Our  candidate  has  already  come  and  gone — quite 
early  in  the  morning,  in  a  pitiless  shower  of  rain- 
Few  were  aware  of  his  visit,  of  which  he  had  sent 
us  no  warning  ;  and  of  these  but  a  handful  left  their 
breakfasts  to  cheer  him. 

It  is  suggested  that  my  presence  at  the  polling- 
station  will  put  a  little  heart  into  the  faithful  band 
gathered  there  and  talking  with  their  enemies  in  the 
gate.  I  doubt  it ;  but,  at  any  rate,  I  can  make  sure 
that  our  fellows  yield  the  Admiral  and  Lady  Caroline 
a  polite  reception.  I  go,  therefore.  This  makes 
the  fourth  time  I  have  climbed  the  hill  to-day. 

If  the  Committee-room  was  depressing,  the  streets 
are  disheartening.  Our  opponents  have  all  the 
motors,  with  at  least  one  carriage-and-pair,  and 
a  general  air  of  insolent  prosperity.  Motors  do  not 
seem  to  mind  the  rain.  They  rush  by  at  a  speed 
which  dissembles  the  poverty  of  their  harvest  ;  and 
as  they  pass  they  scatter  mud  over  me.     A  solitary 

326 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

one-horse  vehicle  crawls  up  the  hill  with  our  colours 
(blue  and  gold)  pendant  about  it  and  dripping  like 
Opheha's  muddy  weeds.  It  contains  three  voters, 
and  one  of  them  sings  out  to  me,  "  ARE  we  down- 
hearted ?  "  To  which  the  other  two,  snatching  off 
their  hats  and  waving  them  till  each  sheds  a  spray 
— a  moitlinet — of  raindrops,  respond  vociferously 
"  NO-0   !  " 

At  the  summit,  in  the  road  outside  the  Council 
School-house,  which  serves  for  polling-booth,  the 
foe  has  it  all  his  own  way.  The  red-white-and-blue 
is  everywhere,  the  causeway  populous  with  ladies, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  a  pretty  child  ready 
with  the  bouquet.  The  rain  has  ceased  for  a  while, 
and  the  scene  moves  to  a  stir  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment. I  pass  cheerfully  through  it  and  am  booed 
as  I  pass.  I  enter  the  school  gates,  cross  the  quag 
of  a  playground,  and  exchange  a  word  or  two  with 
the  tally-keepers  by  the  door — two  of  each  party, 
polite  as  seconds  in  a  duel — who,  albeit  the  sky  has 
been  brightening  for  some  minutes,  still  huddle  like 
disconsolate  poultry — 

Counting  the  frequent  drip  from  reeded  eaves. 

I  stroll  back  to  the  roadway,  and  am  booed  again. 
.  .  .  It  is  excellent  discipline  to  be  booed  and  to 
keep  an  indifferent  face.  Only,  when  the.  booers 
are  friends  and  neighbours  to  whom  you  have  always 
wished  well,  a  mean  thought  will  arise  now  and  again 
— just  a  thought  of  which  you  are  instantly  ashamed 

327 


NEWS     FROM    THE     DUCHY 

— So-and-so,  over  there,  with  cheek  distended  and 
face  inflamed  against  me — might  he  not  remember 

that    only   six  weeks  ago ?     "What?"  Never 

mind  what.  It  's  baser,  perhaps,  in  me  to  remember 
it  than  in  him  to  forget.     .     .    . 

The  "  gentry  "  in  the  roadway  are  slightly  puzzled, 
as  I  dally  and  talk  with  one  and  another  quite  as 
if  nothing  is  happening  to  make  us  less  friends 
to-day  than  we  were  yesterday  and  shall  be  to-morrow 
or  the  day  after  :  puzzled  and  slightly  constrained. 
.  .  .  This  is  fun  :  for  not  only  do  I  mean  it  and 
like  nine-tenths  of  them,  but  I  have  them  at  a 
beautifully  polite  disadvantage,  since  they  cannot 
well  order  me  off  a  public  roadway.  This  is  also 
battle  ;   and  my  spirits  rise. 

A  damsel  of  the  party — she  is  a  "  good  sort,"  and 
we  were  friends  long  before  she  put  up  her  hair  and 
lengthened  the  skirts  in  which  she  used  to  go  bird's- 
nesting — tells  me  that  she  is  a  Suffragette  and  only 
joins  in  this  demonstration  on  the  other  side  because 
our  party  will  not  give  women  the  vote. 

"  We  are  beating  you  to-day,"  she  assures  me. 

"  Well,"  say  I,  "  one  can't  win  always.  At  the 
worst,  then,  we  shall  have  you  on  our  side  next 
time." 

She  pauses  to  consider  this,  and  a  distant  rolling 
cheer  down  the  road  announces  that  the  Admiral 
and  his  Lady  are  coming.  .  .  .  They  arrive  and 
alight  from  the  motor.  The  child  steps  forward  with 
the  bouquet.     .     .     .     It  is  all  quite  pretty,  though 

328 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

Lady  Caroline's  thanks  and  the  Admiral's  short 
speech  are  alike  inaudible  amid  the  cheering.  At 
the  conclusion  the  Admiral  catches  sight  of  me, 
and  we  lift  our  hats.  He  (excellent  fellow)  would 
like  to  introduce  me  .  .  .  and  so  Lady  Caroline 
and  I  converse  for  a  few  seconds,  and  I  wish  her  every 
joy  in  life,  saving  the  one  on  which  her  heart  is,  for 
the  moment,  set. 

A  gleam  of  sunshine — the  first  and  last  for  the 
day — spreads  a  dazzle  down  the  wet  road  as  they 
climb  into  the  car  and  are  driven  off.  Certainly 
they  are  having  all  the  luck.  ...  I  turn  amid 
the  cheering,  and  walk  back  to  the  Comrnittee-room. 
On  the  way  I  grow  conscious  that  my  feet  are  keeping- 
time  to  an  idiotic  air  which  has  been  haunting  me 
since  I  rose  and  dressed.  In  my  bath  I  started 
humming  it  :  I  am  whistling  it  dumbly  now.  Con- 
found the  thing  !  It  is  the  Funeral  March  of  a 
Marionette  ! 

So  the  day  drags  on  :  and  at  its  close  we  have 
polled  all  but  three  of  our  men.  As  the  church 
clock  strikes  eight,  we  in  the  Committee  room  look 
at  one  another  and  draw  a  long  breath.  "  Now  all 
is  done  that  men  can  do  " — and  a  swift  checking 
of  the  red  and  blue  lines  on  the  register  assures  us 
that,  even  if  we  allow  a  wide  margin  for  human 
perfidy,  the  fight  has  not  been  lost  in  this  corner  of 
the  division.  The  workers  come  clustering  in,  and 
find  room  to  range  themselves  around,  in  the  parlour's 
tiny  ambit.     Their  oilskins  and  mackintoshes  shine 

329 


NEWS    FROM     THE    DUCHY 

wet  in  the  lamplight  as  I  speak  the  few  words  of 
thanks  that  are  expected  (as,  indeed,  they  have  been 
earned),  .  .  .  and  so  home,  as  Pepys  says,  and  to 
dinner ;  still  with  that  infernal  Funeral  March 
clogging  my  feet. 

Thank  Heaven,  in  the  act  of  changing  my  garments 
1  put  it  all  aside.  The  tune  is  lost,  the  depression 
lifts,  all  care  drops  from  me.  How  good  it  is  to  sit  at 
home  and  to  dine  ! — for  I  am  hungry  as  a  hunter. 
And  again  after  dinner  I  sit  and  smoke  in  a  deep 
peace.  .  .  .  Cynthia  is  eager  to  hear  of  the  day's 
doings,  and  I  describe  them  disconnectedly,  laughing 
now  and  again  over  their  oddities.  She  harks  back 
to  speculating  on  the  issue.  .  .  .  The  issue  ? 
Mercury  has  carried  it  aloft  and  laid  it  on  the  knees 
of  the  gods.  It  rests  somewhere  on  Olympus,  a 
thousand  miles  away.  In  this  mood  I  go  to  bed, 
and  drop  asleep  as  soon  as  my  head  touches  the 
pillow,  and  sleep  without  a  dream,  while  abroad  the 
ballot-boxes  are  being  driven  through  the  night, 
all  converging  upon  Lescarrow,  central  market-town 
of  our  division.  Maybe  the  Funeral  March  of  a 
Marionette  has  passed  out  from  me  and  jig-jigs 
somewhere  along  those  miry  roads,  under  the  stars, 
to  the  trot  of  a  horse. 

All  this  happened  yesterday.  To-morrow  (says 
the  song)  is  another  day.  It  is  also  a  very  different 
one.  I  awake  to  sunshine  and  the  chatter  of  a 
starling,  and  for  the  moment  to  a  blithe  sense  of 


33° 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

liberty.  Some  weight  has  been  rolled  away  :  at 
length  I  am  free  for  an  after-breakfast  chat  with  the 
gardener  and  a  morning  devoted  to  my  own  quiet 
business  : 

Libertas,  quae  sera  taraen  respexit  inertem — - 
Respexit  tamen  et  longo  post  tempore  venit. 

But  as  consciousness  widens  there  grows  a  small 
cloud  of  foreboding.  .  .  .  Yes,  now  I  remember. 
The  Polling  is  over,  but  there  is  yet  the  Count. 
The  Couni;  begins  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  Municipal 
Council  Chamber  at  Lescarrow  ;  and  I  must  catch 
an  early  train  to  attend  it,  having  received  a  paper 
appointing  me  to  watch  on  behalf  of  our  candidate, 
and  having  taken  oath  to  observe  certain  secrecies 
(none  of  which,  by  the  way,  this  paper  of  mine  is 
going  to  violate)  ...  I  arise,  protesting  against 
fate.  Why  did  I  ever  permit  myself  to  be  entrapped 
into  politics  ? 

O  limed  soul  that  struggling  to  be  free 
Art  more  engaged  ! 

In  the  intervals  of  dressing  I  pause  and  contem- 
plate, through  an  open  window,  the  harbour  spread 
at  my  feet ;  riant  wavelets  twinkling  and  darkening 
when  the  faint  breeze  runs  counter  with  the  tide  ; 
white  gulls  flashing,  sliding  in  delicate  curves  against 
the  blue  ;  vessels  and  fishing-boats  swinging  gently 
to  their  moorings.  The  Election — all  of  it  that  truly 
matters — is  over,  I  beg  to  state.  The  fight  is  dead 
and    done    with.     What    sensible    man    should    be 


33i 


NEWS     FROM    THE     DUCHY 

hurried  from  such  amenities  to  fret  a  day  upon  what 
is  already  settled  beyond  revoke  ?  I  seem  to  hear 
the  voices  of  our  two  candidates  fading  away  into 
the  blue  distance,  contending  as  they  fade.  Their 
altercations  tinkle  on  the  ear  like  thin  echoes  from 
a  gramophone.  Return,  O  Muse,  and  bring  me  back 
the  authentic  rivals,  Thyrsis  and  Corydon  ! 

Despite  these  pauses,  I  catch  the  early  train.  Our 
branch  railway  follows  the  right  bank  of  an  estuary 
as  fair  as  you  will  find  in  England,  its  embankment 
running  a  very  few  feet  above  high-water  mark  ; 
nor  can  I  ever  decide  whether  the  estuary  be  lovelier 
when  beneath  the  sunset  and  between  overhanging 
woodlands  it  is  brimmed  with 

Such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam  ; 

or  when,  as  now,  across  the  drained  flats  morning 
sparkles  on  the  breasts  of  gulls,  divers,  curlews, 
congregated  in  hundreds,  and  here  and  there  a  heron 
flaps  his  wing  upon  a  lilac  shadow  or  stands  planted, 
and  fishes,  master  of  his  channel.  Solitary  bird  ! 
be  it  mine  henceforth  to  watch,  with  you,  my  true, 
if  narrow,  channel,  and  leave  these  others  to  chatter 
about  the  flats,  the  shallows  ! 

I  change  trains  at  the  junction,  and  on  the  platform 

run  against    Squire  .      We  are   bound  on  the 

same  errand  ;  he  to  watch  the  count  for  the  Admiral. 
He  is  a  Whig  of  the  old  breed — one  of  those  lost  to 
us  in  '85  ;    an  English  gentleman  of  the  best  sort  ; 

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THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

giving,  year  in  and  year  out,  an  unpaid  devotion 
to  the  business  of  his  county.  I  hope  and  believe 
that  he  likes  me  a  little  :  if  only  it  be  half  my  liking 
for  him,  it  is  much  more  than  a  little.  We  exchange 
salutations  ;  but  some  ladies  are  with  him,  travelling 
up  to  hear  the  poll  declared.  They  all  wear  the 
red-white-and-blue.  So  I  get  a  smoking  compart- 
ment to  myself,  and  he  travels  next  door,  where 
I  hope  they  allow  him  his  cigar.  They  seem  very 
confident.  ...  If  they  only  knew  how  faintly, 
at  this  moment,  I  desire  their  discomfiture  ! 

I  hate  to  hear  the  Duchy  miscalled  "  the  Riviera 
of  England."  It  has  a  climate  of  its  own,  and 
yesterday  the  out-voters  had  a  taste  of  it  which 
I  hope  they  enjoyed.  But  certainly  our  winter  gives 
us  some  exquisite  days  :  and  this  is  one.  The 
railway  still  follows  up  the  vale  of  my  best-beloved 
river  ;  but  climbs  now,  and  is  carried  high  on  the 
hillside — on  viaducts  sometimes,  across  giddy  depths 
where  the  lateral  coombes  descend.  Below  us  the 
woods  lift  their  tree-tops,  and  far  below  runs  the 
river  and  glances  up  through  their  delicate  winter 
traceries  : 

O  ancient  streams,  O  far-descended  woods  ! 

Was  ever  a  day  "  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright,"  so 
lustrally  pure  ?  Last  night  my  indifference  came  of 
sheer  physical  weariness  :  now  I  let  drop  the  window- 
sash  and  bathe  me,  body  and  spirit,  in  the  rush  of 
air.     .     .     . 


333 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

The  train  comes  to  a  stop  in  Lescarrow  station,  and 
with  a  jerk.  A  small  crowd  pours  out,  and  a  jolly 
farmer,  as  I  open  the  door  of  my  compartment, 
rushes  up  to  me. 

"  Well,  is  Troy  all  right  ?  We  did  splendidly — 
splendidly  !  .  .  .  Gloomy  tales,  though,  about 
t'other  side  of  the  division.  Hope  it  's  all  right. 
What  's  your  candid  opinion  now  ?  " 

It  begins  to  occur  to  me  that  I  am  interested  in 
the  question.  I  begin  some  banal  answer,  when  he 
interrupts,  "  Why,  you  're  not  wearin'  the  colours  !  " 

I  search  my  pockets,  and  discover  an  old  rosette, 
crumpled  with  service  in  three  campaigns.  He 
watches  whilst  I  pin  it  on  my  coat-lappet.  "  That  's 
better.  Must  show  one  's  colours  !  "  His  own 
breast  is  largely  occupied  by  a  blue-and-gold  rosette 
at  least  five  inches  in  diameter.  I  answer  that  it 
is  not  customary  for  those  attending  the  Count  to 
show  any  party  colours  ;  but  that,  to  please  him, 
I  will  wear  mine  along  the  street.  So  we  leave  the 
station  together,  and  walk  up  to  the  town.  .  .  . 
Eh,  what  is  this  ?  I  have  not  taken  a  dozen  steps 
before  the  Funeral  March  of  a  Marionette  is  back, 
out  of  nowhere,  jigging  at  my  heels — tum-ti-tiddety , 
tihn-ti-tum,  etc. 

I  look  in  at  our  Central  Committee-room,  the 
Temperance  Hall.  '  A  paper-man  in  a  cyclone," 
runs  a  nautical  simile.  The  aspect  of  the  Temperance 
Hall  suggests  that  a  hundred  bacchanals  have  been 
dancing  there  in  as  many  cyclones  of  waste-paper. 

334 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

On  my  word,  I  never  saw  such  a  litter.  It  rises  to  my 
ankles.  In  the  midst  of  it  stand  three  pale  red-eyed 
men,  "  clearing  up,"  as  they  profess.  They  show  me 
calculations,  over  which  I  run  a  wary,  experienced 
eye.  They  say  that  the  Chief  Agent  has  figures 
I  may  depend  on,  and  has  left  word  that  he  wishes 
to  see  me.  He  is  at  this  moment  breakfasting  at 
the  hotel. 

To  the  hotel  (there  is  but  one)  I  go,  and  find  the 
Chief  Agent  seated  at  breakfast  before  an  un- 
appetising dish  of  eggs-and-bacon.  There  is  some- 
thing Napoleonic  about  the  Chief  Agent — a  hard, 
practical  man  with  a  face  scarred  as  if  by  actual 
battle.  He  shows  me  his  paper  of  figures,  and 
rapidly  explains  to  me  (but  I  know  it  already)  his 
method,  with  the.  percentage  he  knocks  off  the 
canvassers'  and  local  committees'  too  sanguine 
calculations.  It  is  a  very  large  percentage,  yet  the 
figures  stand  the  test  surprisingly  well.  The  Chief 
Agent,  though,  is  no  fool.  He  admits  that  there  has 
been  a  slump  during  the  last  three  days,  chiefly  among 
the  dockyardsmen  and  the  lower  decks  of  the  Fleet  : 
if  the  slump  became  a  "  slide  "  yesterday  it  may  have 
upset  all  these  figures.  ...  At  this  point  Our 
Man's  valet  appears.  His  master  has  just  finished 
dressing,  and  would  like  a  chat  with  me  while  he 
breakfasts.  My  watch  tells  me  that  I  have  still 
twenty  minutes  to  spare.  So  up  I  go,  and  on  the 
stairs  the  valet  (who  believes  with  me  that  Our  Man 
has  all  along  been  over-confident)  turns  and  confides 

335 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 

that  "  He  's  in  capital  fettle  this  morning,  sir  ;  but 
the  night  before  last  I  never  saw  him  so  down." 

I  find  the  room  dressed  with  childish  devices  in 
blue-and-gold,  and  Our  Man's  two  little  daughters 
still  busy  with  decorations.  They  have  even  fixed 
up  a  large  placard  of  cardboard  with  "  Vote  for 
Daddy  "  in  blue  and  yellow  letters.  Their  mother, 
Lady  Mabel,  moves  about  helping  one  or  the  other. 
She  is  not  a  politician,  like  Lady  Caroline  ;  but  she 
is  an  admirable  wife  and  mother,  and  I  feel  something 
in  my  throat  as  she  turns  and  laughs  and  I  note  her 
brave  smile.  As  for  Our  Man,  he  has  ridden  in  the 
Grand  National  before  now,  and  can  face  music. 
He  greets  me  cheerfully,  and  chats  as  he  makes  an 
excellent  breakfast.  Only  an  unnatural  brightness 
in  the  white  of  the  eyes  and  now  and  again  a  tired 
droop  of  the  lids  tell  of  these  three  weeks  and  their 
strain.  There  is  no  hurry  for  him  to  attend  the 
Count,  which  begins  with  a  tedious  checking  of  the 
ballot-boxes.  He  will  run  down  by  and  by  and  see 
how  we  are  getting  on.  So  I  leave  him  and  walk 
down  to  the  Municipal  Buildings. 

In  the  Council  Chamber,  to  which  a  policeman 
admits  me  after  scanning  my  paper,  I  find  most  of 
the  company  gathered  and  the  Under-Sheriff  already 
getting  to  work.  The  ballot-boxes — each  with  the 
name  of  its  polling-station  lettered  in  white  upon 
its  black-japan  varnish,  each  strapped  with  red  tape 
and  sealed — stand  in  a  row  along  one  side  of  the 
room,  with  two  constables  in  charge.     The  counting 

336 


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and  checking  clerks  have  pulled  in  their  chairs  around 
the  long  baize-covered  table.  Aloft,  on  a  balustraded 
platform,  in  the  mayoralty  throne,  with  a  desk 
before  him,  the  High-Sheriff  is  taking  his  seat.  He 
is  frock-coated,  portly,  not  to  say  massive.  He  has 
a  double  chin,  and  one  of  those  large  aristocratic 
faces  which  combine  fleshiness  with  distinction ; 
from  start  to  finish  it  keeps  an  impenetrable 
impassivity  and  suggests  a  vast  boiled  ham. 
He  wears  lemon-coloured  kid-gloves.  He  takes  off 
his  beautiful  silk  hat  and  looks  about  for  a  place  to 
deposit  it.  Finding  none,  he  dons  it  again,  draws 
off  his  gloves,  again  removes  his  hat,  bestows  the 
gloves  in  it,  and  has  another  look  about  him.  (All 
council  chambers  known  to  me  are  dusty  and  ill- 
kept.)  My  attention  at  this  point  is  distracted,  and 
to  the  last  I  have  no  notion  what  the  High-Sheriff 
has  done  with  his  hat. 

We  invigilators  meanwhile  are  strolling  about, 
chatting  in  small  groups.  We  number  twenty-six — 
a  baker's  dozen  for  either  candidate — and  I  remark 
that  my  fellow-Liberals  have  a  shocking  taste  in 
ties.  We  have  pocketed  our  party  colours,  and  the 
two  sides  treat  one  another  with  careful  politeness. 
The  most  of  us  gravitate  around  a  sullen  stove  ; 
for  this  waiting  does  not  make  for  warmth,  and, 
though  the  sunshine  outside  may  flatter,  the  Council 
Chamber  is  chilly.  A  few  gather  towards  the  table 
as  at  length  the  Under-Sheriff  calls  for  silence,  and 
a  constable  fetches  up  the  first  ballot-box  ;   but  this 

337 
22 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

brings  a  warning  that  until  all  the  ballot-boxes  have 
been  opened  and  the  number  of  papers  in  each 
checked  separately  by  the  returning-officer's  figures, 
we  are  not  to  approach — a  precaution  against  our 
learning  how  the  poll  has  run  in  separate  districts 
— and  a  futile  one,  since  the  counting-clerks  are  men 
of  like  political  passions  with  ourselves,  and  secrets 
always  leak  out.  As  it  is,  I  regret  to  observe  that 
two  or  three  of  us  from  time  to  time  wander  absent- 
mindedly  within  the  forbidden  zone  and  cast  long 
glances  at  the  table.  .  .  .  For  my  part  I  stick 
close  to  the  stove,  with  my  back  to  it,  and  watch  the 
idle  ceremonial  from  afar  ;  passing,  as  it  drags  its 
slow  length,  through  chilliness  to  a  sort  of  numb 
misery.  My  next-hand  neighbour  mutters  complaint 
of  the  draught,  while  all  the  while  perspiring,  frothing 
like  a  colt.  ...  I  observe  cynically  with  what 
ease  a  man  might  spirit  away  one  of  these  ballot- 
boxes  we  are  treating  with  such  absurd  solemnity. 
Half  a  dozen  of  us  at  least — the  High-Sheriff,  the 
Under-Sheriff ,  the  Chief  Constable  (who  has  sauntered 
in),  the  two  Agents,  two  or  three  of  the  clerks — have 
brought  great-coats  and  hand-bags  and  set  them 
down  carelessly.  One  bag  lies  on  top  of  a  ballot-box 
midway  down  the  line.  I  might,  strolling  about 
with  the  more  restless  invigilators,  cast  my  burberry 
across  one,  known  to  me  to  be  adverse,  which  stands 
pretty  near  the  door ;  then  presently,  when  the 
constables  are  carrying  up  anothei  box,  and  (as 
I  observe)  every  eye  in  the  room  is  glued  upon  the 

338 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

Under-Sheriff  while  he  breaks  the  seals  and  empties 
the  contents,  I  might  catch  up  the  box  under  the 
burberry  and  briskly  step  out  of  the  door,  saluting 
as  I  go  the  Admiral,  who  is  at  this  moment  entering 
and  demanding  in  his  breezy  way  to  know  how  we  are 
getting  on.  With  a  bold  front  the  chances  against 
escape  might  be  reduced  to  short  odds. 

I  amuse  myself  with  the  fancy  that  maybe  the 
High-Sheriff  has  smuggled  one  of  the  boxes  away 
under  his  enormous  hat.  Such  a  trick  would 
exactly  accord  with  his  face — in  a  story  by  Dumas 
Pere. 

"  Four-six-seven  !  "  snaps  out  the  Under-Sheriff, 
announcing  the  numbers  of  the  last  box. 

The  High-Sheriff  consults  his  list  of  returns. 
"  Polling  station,  Gantick.  Four  -  six  -  seven. 
Right." 

The  papers  are  swept  back  into  the  box.  Now 
the  real  business  is  about  to  begin,  and  we  are 
marshalled  up  for  it — two  invigilators  to  stand  behind 
each  counting-clerk  and  watch  that  he  does  his 
work  correctly,  letting  no  spoilt  or  doubtful  paper 
pass.  At  first  I  range  myself  alongside  an  opponent 
who  has  been  politely  discussing  with  me  for  ten 
minutes  (now  I  come  to  remember  it)  a  small  anti- 
quarian matter  in  which  we  are  both  interested. 
But  it  seems  that  we  are  too  many  on  this  side  of  the 
table,    and   I    walk   around   to   find   myself  posted 

shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Squire ,  who  accepts 

me  with  a  friendly  nod.     I  glance  across  the  table 

339 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

and  catch,  all  involuntarily,  the  eye  of  a  counting- 
clerk  opposite.  I  know  him,  but  am  unaware  of  his 
politics.  He  is,  of  course,  aware  of  mine,  and  I  seem 
to  detect  a  faint  shake  of  the  head  and  lift  of  the 
eyelid,  which  together  hint  that  T  may  prepare 
myself  for  the  worst.  So  I  clutch  at  stoicism  and 
prepare  myself ;  but  until  this  moment  I  had  not 
known  how  strong  my  hopes  really  were. 

The  contents  of  the  boxes  are  now  shot  out  upon 
the  table  in  one  great  heap,  and  while  the  constables 
do  this  the  counting-clerks  reach  forward  with  both 
hands  and  mix  the  papers  in  one  huge  mad  salad. 
This  mixing  lasts  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  maybe. 
Then  the  count  begins  in  earnest.  We  have  wasted 
an  hour  and  a  half,  and  already  the  crowd  in  the 
street  grows  impatient.  We  can  hear  them  hurling 
challenges,  starting  party  war-songs,  hooting  each 
other  down. 

My  counting-clerk  scoops  a  pile  of  papers  in  front 
of  him  and  begins  to  sort  rapidly.  On  each  paper 
are  two  names  with  a  pencilled  cross  against  one, 
and  he  sorts  them  to  right  and  left — Our  Man  to  the 
left,  the  Admiral  Lo  the  right.  Blank,  Dash — 
Blank — Dash,  Dash,  Daih.  (Blank  stands  for  Our 
Man,  who  heads  each  paper  by  alphabetical  prece- 
dence ;  Dash  for  the  Admiral.)  The  Admiral  is 
running  three  for  Our  Man's  one.  .  .  .  This  is 
going  to  be  Waterloo  !  After  ten  minutes  of  it 
I  abandon  hope  and  fall  to  com^,  "ing  the  telegram 
I  shall  send  home. 


34o 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

I  glance  down  the  table.  The  faces  of  my  fellow- 
Liberals  are  grave,  yet  somehow  they  give  me  a  ray 
of  hope  that  we  at  our  corner,  in  spite  of  the  mixing, 
have  struck  a  peculiarly  unfavourable  sample  of  the 
total  pile,  and  that  (to  change  metaphors)  the  tide 
will  turn  for  us  presently.  But  my  eyes  ought  not 
to  be  wandering.     I  am  warned  of  this  by  a  gentle 

"  Excuse  me  "  from  Squire at  my  side.      He 

touches  the  clerk  on  the  shoulder  and  with  a  finger 
indicates  that  he  has  laid  one  of  our  votes  on  the 
Admiral's   heap.     It  was  my  business   to  discover 

the  mistake,  but  (as  I  have  said)  Squire  is  an 

English  gentleman.  Hereafter  for  ten  minutes  I  keep 
my  eyes  glued  upon  the  papers  flitting  under  the 
clerk's  hand,  until  the  quick  succession  of  crosses 
lulls  me  to  a  kind  of  stupor.  The  tide  is  turning, 
but  very  slowly.  .  .  .  When  the  clerk  thinks 
he  has  papers  enough  on  one  or  another  of  the  heaps 
he  counts  back  one  hundred  of  them,  pats  the  hundred 
into  a  neat  packet,  and  passes  it  up  to  one  of  the  four 
"  checking-clerks,"  who  count  it  over  again,  verify 
it,  and  pass  it  to  the  Under-Sheriff,  who  in  turn 
passes  it  up  to  the  High-Sheriff,  who  after  a  glance 
through  his  glasses,  lays  it  to  the  left  or  right  of  his 
desk  according  as  it  belongs  to  Our  Man  or  to  the 
Admiral.  .  .  .  My  rising  hopes  are  dashed  as 
I  perceive  that  the  Admiral  already  leads  by  six  of 
the  "centuries  "  (as  I  will  call  them).  He  (good 
fellow)  stands  a  pace  or  two  behind  me,  watching 
the  business.     His  Agent  steps  back  to  him,   and 

3+i 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

I  catch  the  words,  "  Very  well  indeed,  so  far." 
I  wonder  that  his  tone  is  not  more  confident  .  .  . 
when,  again  glancing  along  the  table,  I  perceive  that 
six  "  centuries  "  are  lying  there  ready  for  the  checking- 
clerks  ;  and  on  three  of  them  I  can  see  that  cross  is 
for  Our  Man.  He,  by  the  way,  has  turned  up,  and 
is  warming  his  back  at  the  stove.  He  passed  behind 
me  a  minute  ago  and  clapped  a  hand  on  my  shoulder ; 
and  I  turned  and  gave  him  as  steady  a  smile  as 
I  could. 

Sure  enough,  four  out  of  the  next  five  "  centuries  " 
go  to  his  pile  :  three  now  in  arrear.  Then  another 
comes  up  for  the  Admiral :  four.  But  the  votes 
beneath  my  eye  are  running  almost  dead  level  now, 
with  a  slight — the  slightest  possible — advantage  for 
Our  Man.  Three  "  centuries "  go  up  for  Blank, 
one  for  Dash,  another  for  Dash,  two  for  Blank 
.  .  .  the  great  pile  at  length  diminishes  percepti- 
bly. .  .  .  So,  as  a  child,  have  I  watched  the  reaping 
machine  make  narrower  circles  in  a  harvest  field, 
rounding  up  the  rabbits  in  the  central  patch  of 
standing  wheat.  .  .  .  The  two  are  running  almost 
neck  and  neck.  I  see,  or  seem  to  see,  that  every 
one's   face  is  white.     The   clerks   work  in   a  dead 

silence.     ...     Of  a  sudden,  Squire at  my 

elbow,  says  quietly — 

"  Your  Man  is  going  to  do  it." 

I  command  my  voice  to  answer,  as  quietly,  that 
I  doubt  it.  .  . '  .  Two  "  centuries  "  go  up  for  the 
Admiral,   one  for  Our  Man  ;    but  under  our  eyes 

342 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

another  has  just  been  told  for  him.  The  clerks, 
who  have  counted  all  the  papers  they  can  reach, 
and  are  left  with  remnants  of  "  centuries,"  pass  these 
remnants  across  to  be  added  to  other  packets. 
.  .  .  All  the  great  heap  has  been  sorted  now,  and 
the  piled  packets,  right  and  left  of  the  High-Sheriff, 
stand  exactly  level  ! 

The  clerks  have  done.  Three  packets  have  yet 
to  be  handed  up.  One  close  by  contains  a  hundred 
— I  know,  for  I  saw  it  counted — and  belongs  to  Our 
Man.  The  other,  a  little  beyond,  is,  I  can  see,  for 
the  Admiral  :  and  this  seems  of  equal  bulk.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  table  a  methodical  little  clerk  is 
slowly  counting  up  the  third — a  thin  one.  Whose  ? 
'  Twenty-one — twenty-two — twenty-three " 

The  clerk  who  has  counted  the  Admiral's  parcel 
holds  it  up  and  says,  "  Seventy-seven  in  this." 

"  Twenty-four — twenty-five — twenty-six,"  counts 
the  methodical  little  man  at  the  end. 

"  Whose?" 

"  Twenty-seven,"  says  the  little  man,  patting  his 

parcel.     "  For  Mr.   Blank." 

Our  Man  is  in,  by  just  fifty  votes. 

*  *  *  * 

I  turn — turn  to  find  myself  almost  face  to  face  with 

the  Admiral,  who  is  receiving  his  friends'  condolences. 

Good  fellow,  he  takes  it  splendidly.     Only  a  flush  on 

the  face  betrays  him.     "  Moral  victory,"  I  hear  one 

assure  him.     "  Moral  victory,  be  d — d,"  he  answers 

back.     "  You  win  or  you  're  beaten.     We  've  given 

343 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

'em  a  run  for  their  money."  I  pass  down  the  length 
of  the  room  to  Our  Man,  and  we  shake  hands  ;  but 
I  want  more  to  shake  hands  with  the  Admiral,  as 
by  and  by  I  find  a  chance  to  do.  "  Devilish  good  of 
you  !    A  fair  fight,"  blurts  he,  and  I  am  speechless. 

There  is  plenty  of  time  for  this,  for  our  imperturb- 
able High-Sheriff,  while  the  crowd  below  rages  with 
impatience,  is  solemnly  adjudicating  upon  six 
doubtful  papers.  The  Agents  argue  points  as 
though  each  paper  were  important  as  a  separate 
suit  in  Chancery.  ...  At  length  it  is  over,  and 
we  all  move  out  to  an  anteroom,  where  one  of  the 
Agents  throws  up  the  sash  of  a  window.  A  roar 
ascends,  and  is  followed  by  a  hush,  as  the  High- 
Sheriff  mounts  on  a  stool  in  full  view  of  the  street  ; 
this,  again,  by  a  lesser  roar  as  the  knowing  ones  on 
our  side  perceive  how  the  two  candidates  arrange 
themselves  beside  him — Our  Man  on  his  right,  the 
Admiral  on  his  left. 

The  High-Sheriff  is  terse.  "  I  declare,"  he  calls 
out,  as  soon  as  the  noise  gives  him  opportunity, 
"  the  result  of  the  poll  to  be  : 

Blank 43*6 

Dash      4266" 

and  is  about  to  declare  that  in  consequence  Mr. 
Blank  is  duly  elected,  when  a  wild  clamour  drowns 
the  utterance.  He  makes  two  attempts  at  speech, 
and  withdraws  from  the  window. 


344 


THE    ELECTION    COUNT 

We  stream  down  the  stairs.  I  see  Our  Man  seized 
at  the  doorway  and  mounted  shoulder-high.  A 
tumult  pours  after  him.  I  wait  until  the  press  has 
gone  by,  and  slip  into  a  by-lane.  Fetching  a  circuit 
of  empty  streets,  I  find  myself  in  face  of  the  hotel, 
on  the  porch-roof  of  which  stand  victor  and 
vanquished,  side  by  side,  bawling  thanks  to  their 
supporters.  They  shake  hands  after  the  fight, 
British  fashion. 

I  edge  my  way  through  the  throng,  into  the 
hotel,  and  upstairs.  A  couple  of  journalists 
intercept  me,  demanding  my  comments  on  the 
victory.  "  Victory  !  "  On  my  word,  that  is  the 
last  thought  in  my  head.  I  answer  them  somehow, 
and  on  the  landing  blunder  against  Lady  Caroline, 
of  all  people  ! 

Contrition  sweeps  over  me  like  a  wave.  "  I  am 
sorry,"  I  stammer.  "  Your  husband  took  it  just 
splendidly." 

"  Ah,"  she  answers  quickly,  proudly,  "  if  only  yon 
knew  him  !     He  is  always  splendid." 

The  new  Member's  room  is  spread  for  luncheon. 
At  least  a  score  of  folk  have  taken  charge.  He  drags 
me  into  his  dressing-room,  where  the  valet  brings 
us  two  plates  of  tepid  roast  mutton,  with  a  whisky 
and  soda  apiece.  This  is  our  victory  !  The  Member 
and  I  push  our  plates  among  the  shaving-gear  and 
brushes  on  his  dressing-table  and  lunch  hilariously. 
*  *  *  * 

I  am  in  the  train  again.     Dusk  is  already  descend- 

345 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

ing  on  the  woodlands,  and  I  have  lost  one  of  our  few 
perfect  days  of  winter.  But  my  spirit  has  resumed 
its  morning  peace,  and  the  Election  is  a  thousand 
years  away.  At  each  station  hands  reach  in  at  the 
window  and  grasp  mine.  I  answer  with  unmeaning 
words.  I  am  still  elated,  but  inclined  to  wonder 
what  it  is  all  about. 

I  reach  home,  and  find  the  streets  deserted.  In 
Troy,  as  I  have  hinted,  our  opponents  command  all 
the  alarums  and  excursions.  They  have  heard  the 
news  by  telephone  and  telegraph,  and  are  digesting 
it  indoors,  behind  drawn  blinds.  It  might  comfort 
them  if  they  knew  with  how  little  of  triumph,  with 
how  deep  a  sense  of  all  human  vanity,  I  pass  their 
windows.  ...  I  come  to  my  own  hall,  and  it  is 
hospitably  bright.  My  footfall  on  the  threshold 
brings  a  household  about  me.  For  a  minute  or  two 
I  wrestle  with  their  joy,  answering  it  as  best  I  may. 
Then,  breaking  away  to  my  small  lit  library,  I  reach 
for  a  pipe  and  look  around  on  the  shelves. 

"  O  my  books,  my  friends  !  You  have  taught  me 
that  for  ten  years  a  man  should  desert  you  for  the 
crowd.  That  time  is  almost  up,  and  life  passes.  A 
little  while  now,  and  we  will  spend  the  rest  of  it  in 
wisdom  together — in  wisdom  and  blessed  quiet !  " 


346 


Tke  Merry-go-Round   at 

Troy 


The  merry-go-round,  the  merry-go-round,  the  merry-go- 
round  at  Troy  ! 

They  whirl  around,  they  gallop  around — man,  woman, 
and  girl,  and  boy  ! 

So  sang  Roden  Noel,  a  genuine  poet ;  and  the  theme 
was  worthy  of  his  muse.  For  annually,  you  must 
know,  in  the  first  or  second  week  of  August,  the 
Regatta  frenzy  descends  upon  us  ;  and  for  three 
days  we  dress  town  and  waterside  in  bunting  and 
bang  starting  guns  and  finishing  guns,  and  put  on 
fancy  dresses,  and  dance  and  walk  in  procession 
and  stare  at  fireworks.  But  the  centre  and  axis  of 
our  revelry  is  always  the  merry-go-round  (locally 
'  the  Whirlies  ')  on  the  town  quay.  There  yachts- 
men, visitors,  farmers,  and  country  wives,  sober 
citizens,  and  mothers  of  families  gather  centripetally 
and  are  caught  together  in  a  whirl  under  the  naphtha 

347 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

lights  around  the  crystal,  revolving  pillar.  But  let 
the  poet  take  up  the  tale  : 

They  circle  on  wooden  horses — white,  black,  and 

brown,  and  bay — 
To  a  loud,  monotonous  tune  that  hath  a  trumpet 

bray. 
All  is  dark  where  the  circus  stands  on  the  narrow 

quay, 
Save  for  its  own  yellow  lamps  that  illumine  it 

brilliantly. 

— the  Parish  Council  being  far  too  wise  to  waste  any 
public  gas  on  Regatta  nights.  They  spare  the  rates 
and  leave  public  illumination  to  the  private  enter- 
prise of  sweet-stalls  (or  '  standings  '),  confetti  stalls, 
stalls  at  which  you  shoot  at  eggs,  or  bob  celluloid 
balls  at  narrow-necked  bowls  of  gold-fish,  or  hurl 
wooden  ones  at  bottles,  to  be  rewarded  for  your 
success  with  a  penny  cigar  or  walking  cane.  Above 
all,  our  Public  Lights  Committee  trusts  to  the 
merry-go-round,  as  it 

Pours  a  broad,   strong  glow 
Over   an   old-world   house   with   a  pillar'd   porch 

below  ; 
For    the    floor    of    the    building    rests    on  bandy 

columns  small, 
And   the   bulging   pile   may,    tottering,    suddenly 

bury  all. 

Well,  and  I  dare  say  this  might  easily  have  happened 
in  the  days  before  modern  enterprise  pulled  down 
the  plaster  front  of  the  King  of  Prussia  Inn  and 

348 


THE    MERRY-GO-ROUND    AT    TROY 

converted  the  '  bulging  pile  '  into  a  nice,  respectable 
tied  house.  But  Lord  bless  you  ! — we  never  thought 
of  it  as  we  rode  the  merry-go-round. 

And  there  upon  wooden  benches,  hunch'd  in  the 

summer  night, 
Sit  wrinkled  sires  of  the  village — 

'  Village  '  quotha  !  Troy  Town  a  village  !  It  is  a 
mystery  to  me  how  so  many  of  our  London  visitors 
suffer  this  strange  hallucination  :  and  I  discussed  it 
one  day  with  Long  Phillips,  one  of  the  said  '  sires.' 
He  told  me  that  it  had  been  just  the  same  in  his 
young  days  :  there  was  something  in  London  which 
caused  folks  to  lose  all  their  sense  of  proportion,  and 
they  came  down  in  August  to  get  cured.     .     .     . 

The  poet  proceeds  to  liken  our  merry-go-round 
to  this  world  vainly  revolving  under  the  cold  scrutiny 
of  the  stars,  and  to  reflect  that  in  an  hour  the  fair 
will  be  over,  the  lamps  extinguished  ; 

For  the  young  may  be  glad  and  eager,  but  some 
ride  listlessly, 

And  the  old  look  on  with  a  weary,  dull,  and  life- 
less eye.     .     .     . 

Eh  ?  The  dickens  they  do  !  Wait  a  bit,  if  you 
please.     .     .     . 


349 


NEWS    FROM     THE     DUCHY 


II 

Some  few  years  ago,  and  not  long  after  the  '  bulging 
pile  '  of  the  old  '  King  of  Prussia  '  had  been  shored 
up,  faced  with  stucco,  and  converted  (as  I  said)  into 
a  nice  up-to-date  tied  house,  there  arrived  as 
temporary  '  landlord  '  a  pink-complexioned  young 
man  who  walked  mincingly  and  thought  it  would  be 
good  business  to  convert  the  old  '  public  '  into  a 
hotel  for  August  visitors,  cold-shouldering  out  the 
rude  sailors  on  whose  custom  it  had  depended  for 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  At  once,  as  you  may 
guess,  he  found  it  intolerable  that  for  a  whole  week 
or  ten  days  of  the  month  on  which  he  most  counted 
for  this  elegant  patronage  a  disgusting  steam  organ 
should  be  allowed  to  blare  out  popular  tunes  under 
his  very  windows.  Now  I  will  admit,  as  a  whilom 
lodger  at  the  old  inn,  who  once  lived  out  a  week 
with  the  steam  organ  and  its 

loud  monotonous  tune  that  hath  a  trumpet  bray, 

that  such  an  experience  is  not  for  all  tastes.  But 
I  happened  to  be  in  love  at  the  time,  and  nothing 
else  mattered.  I  converted  all  its  sounds  of  woe 
into  "  hey,  nonny,  nonny  !  "  And  now,  on  hearing 
that  the  new  landlord  was  agog  for  an  injunction 
to  restrain  the  nuisance,  I  had  a  mind  to  advise  him 
cheerfully  to  seek  his   clientele  among  lovers   only 

35o 


THE    MERRY-GO-ROUND    AT    TROY 

(large  numbers  of  whom  visit  us  every  season), 
and  to  advertise  his  '  Dark  Room  '  for  rejected  ones, 
letting  the  Amateur  Photographer  seek  elsewhere. 
But  he  was  an  obstinate  man,  as  these  pink- 
complexioned  fellows  so  often  are,  and  he  petitioned 
the  Parish  Council. 

Nobody  took  it  seriously  at  first,  as,  indeed,  at 
that  time  only  a  few  far-sighted  men  had  begun  to 
take  the  Parish  Council  seriously.  But  the  mischief 
was  that  one  of  our  periodical  merry  crazes  had 
caught  hold  of  Troy  just  then,  and  this  particular 
craze  happened  to  be  for  Reform,  of  all  things  in 
the  world  !  When  I  spoke  of  the  rumour  airily 
to  Long  Phillips  he  dismayed  me  by  taking  it  in  all 
seriousness. 

"  They  '11  do  it,"  prophesied  Long  Phillips, 
gloomily  watching  the  showmen  as  they  erected  the 
frame  of  the  merry-go-round  (for  it  was  the  eve  of 
regatta  week).  "They've  called  a  'mergency 
meeting  of  the  Parish  Council ;  and  to-morrow  you  '11 
find  the  quay  swept  bald  as  my  head." 

"  We  must  stop  it,"  said  I  firmly. 

"  Who  must  stop  it  ?  " 

"Well"— I  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Binks,  show 
proprietor,  and  beckoned  him  to  join  us.  "  Here  's 
three  of  us,  for  a  start,  and  kindly  remember  that 
desperate    diseases   require    desperate    remedies." 

The  Parish  Council  holds  its  meetings  in  the 
Working  Men's  Institute,  which  occupies  the  northern 
side  of  the  town  quay,  running  out  at  right  angles 

351 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

from  the '  King  of  Prussia  '  ;  and  the  Parish  Council 
upstairs  that  night  conducted  its  business  to  the  full 
blare  of  the  merry-go-round,  the  steam  whistle  of 
which  broke  out  at  intervals  with  ribald  ear-piercing 
blasts.  So  deafening  were  these  that  the  chairman 
shortened  debate  by  exclaiming  (in  effect)  :  "  How 
need  we  any  further  evidence  ?  "  The  motion  to 
suppress  the  nuisance  was  put  and  unanimously 
carried,  and  the  councillors  descended  to  the  steps 
of  the  institute,  within  five  feet  of  which  the  edge  of 
the  merry-go-round  rotated.  .  .  .  Sing  now, 
•0  Muse,  what  a  sight  met  their  eyes,  as  a  roar  of 
Homeric  laughter  rose  from  the  crowd  and  drowned 
for  a  full  minute  even  the  reboant  steam  organ  ! 

There — before  them — mounted  on  wooden  horses, 
white,  black,  brown,  and  grey — circled  all  the  aged 
and  infirm  of  the  parish  !  with  not  a  few  citizens 
of  credit  and  renown  and  their  respectable  wives. 
Indeed  the  clamour  for  seats  (or,  shall  we  say, 
saddles  ?)  had  been  so  overwhelming  that  the 
stewards  of  the  demonstration  had  much  ado  to 
adjudge  in  haste  on  the  social  claims  of  those  who 
fought  for  the  honour  of  saving  the  State. 

For  an  instant  the  Parish  Councillors  seemed  in 
two  minds  about  running  back  upstairs  and  re- 
scinding their  resolution.  To  their  credit,  however, 
they  put  on  brave  faces  and  dispersed  not  without 
dignity,  albeit  amid  galling  laughter. 

But  I  need  not  tell  you  that  their  precious  resolu- 
tion was  never  enforced.    The  Troy  merry-go-round 

352 


THE    MERRY-GO-ROUND    AT    TROY 

has  continued  to  rotate  annually  ;  and  to-night — 
this  very  night — I  have  tasted  reward  for  my  share 
in  that  past  demonstration.  For  Mr.  Binks  has 
bought  a  new  steam  organ ;  and  to-night,  as  I 
mounted  a  wooden  horse,  the  organ  stopped  for  a  few 
seconds  and  burst  forth  triumphantly  into  a  fresh 
tune.  Into  what  tune,  think  you  ? 
Why— the  Hallelujah  Chorus! 


353 

23 


A  Yachting  Adventure 


At  the  very  conclusion  of  our  Regatta — when  the 
Territorial  Band  had  played  "  God  Save  the  King," 
the  Royal  Troy  Yacht  Club  had  banged  off  its 
sunset-gun,  the  yachts  in  harbour  had  undressed 
ship,  and  we  were  all  preparing  to  sup  in  haste,  to 
be  ready  for  the  first  rocket  of  the  fireworks — there 
came  sailing  in  throughfthe  twilight,  late  for  every- 
thing as  usual,  the  50-ton  yawl  notorious  along  the 
south  coast  as  the  Maiden  Aunt.  She  carries,  for 
owner,  the  dearest  little  old  gentleman  in  the  world 
(everywhere  known  as  "  Uncle,"  because  we  all 
profess  to  have  expectations  from  him)  ;  and  for 
crew  the  laziest  bean-fed  set  of  pirates  that  ever,  by 
being  late  for  everything,  missed  Execution  Dock. 
Their  skipper,  a  fme-gentleman'sort  of  rascal  who  has 
improved  on  a  Brightlingsea  dialect  by  putting  in 
his  h's  all  wrong,  is  popularly  supposed  to  have 
kidnapped  his  patron  many  years  ago,  and  to  have 
been  hurrying  him  ever  since  from  port  to  port, 
that  he  may  get  into  no  communication  with  his 
friends.     But  this  is  legend.     As  a  matter  of  fact, 

355 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

the  little  old  gentleman  believes  his  crew  to  consist 
of  honest  salts  who  at  need  would  lay  down  their 
lives  for  him. 

Well,  the  Maiden  Aunt  came  beating  up  through 
the  crowded  harbour  with  a  very  light  breeze  and 
a  strong  tide  running  under  her.  As  usual,  she 
fouled,  or  just  missed  to  foul,  everything  within 
reach,  and  either  of  natural  offensiveness  or  because 
it  had  not  agreed  with  his  temper  to  be  addressed 
as  "  Crippen  "  by  the  various  crews  that  had  hung 
out  fenders  against  collision  or  climbed  out  on 
bobstays  to  thrust  his  too-attentive  bowsprit  clear, 
her  skipper  chose  to  pick  up  his  anchorage  in  the 
very  midst  of  a  crowd  of  small  craft  that  for  three 
days  had  been  living  on  excellent  terms  together — 
living  and  letting  live,  as  all  good  yachtsmen  should. 
Having  dropped  hook,  he  lowered  his  dinghy  to  carry 
out  the  kedge  rope. 

"  I  say,"  hailed  a  voice  from  the  bows  of  his 
next-door  neighbour,  a  20-ton  ketch,  "  be  careful 
how  you  lay  that  kedge  !  Our  chain  lies  that  way, 
and  we  're  sailing  early.  Pretty  silly  game,  isn't  it, 
to  drop  right  on  top  of  us  ?  We  're  starting  before 
daybreak,  I  warn  you  !  " 

"  Ree-ly  ?  I  wouldn't  meet  trouble  'alf-way, 
young  gentlemen,  at  your  age,  if  I  was  you," 
responded  the  skipper,  and  his  crew  started  to 
whistle,  yet  more  offensively,  the  chorus  of  a  music- 
hall  song,  of  which  the  refrain  runs,  "  I  cannot  go 
home  in  the  dark  !  " 

356 


A    YACHTING    ADVENTURE 


II 

Now  the  crew  of  the  ketch — the  Fay  aw  ay — 
consisted  of  four  hands,  who  happened  to  be  under- 
graduates of  the  University  of  Oxford.  They  had 
learnt  their  seamanship  (such  as  it  was)  elsewhere  ; 
but  in  their  residence  at  that  Seat  of  Learning  they 
had  amassed  a  fund  of  animal  spirits  more  than 
sufficient  for  most  immediate  purposes.  The  Regatta 
being  over,  they  meant  to  lose  no  time  in  taking  the 
seas  again,  but  to  catch  the  tide  as  it  drained  out 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 

At  about  3  a.m.,  while  the  yachts  around  slumbered 
and  the  crew  of  the  Maiden  Aunt  were  (so  to  say) 
snoring  it  off,  these  four  young  men  started  to 
shorten  chain.  They  soon  found  that — quite  as 
they  had  expected — they  were  fishing  up  the  Maiden 
Aunt's  kedge,  and,  having  possessed  themselves  of 
it,  they  held  a  council  of  war.  It  is  still  disputed 
among  them — as  I  understand — upon  whom  the 
inspiration  first  descended ;  but  within  ten  minutes 
Number  One  had  hold  of  a  disreputable  pair  of  grey 
flannels  and  was  stuffing  them  with  bottle-straws 
and  cotton-waste ;  Number  Two  was  doing  the 
same  to  the  sleeves  of  an  old  jersey  ;  Number  Three 
was  attaching  a  pair  of  worn-out  shoes  to  the  limp 
ankles  ;  while  Number  Four  was  covering  the  ship's 
mop  with  linen  (to  represent  the  bleached  face  of  a 
drowned    seaman),    and    nailing    a    yachting    cap 

357 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

securely  on  the  occiput.  An  enormous  empty 
ginger-beer  jar  formed  the  torso,  the  shortened 
mop-handle  was  thrust  into  the  neck,  and  when  the 
jersey  had  been  drawn  on  and  the  grey  flannels 
belted  securely  around  its  waist,  the  corpse  was 
pronounced — in  the  words  of  one  of  the  conspirators 
— to  be  truly  life-like.  Nothing  remained  but  to 
attach  it  by  a  short  line  to  the  kedge,  carry  them 
out  together,  and  drop  them  softly  in  their  watery 
grave.  Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral 
note  .  .  ,  and  the  crew  of  the  Maiden  Aunt  still 
slumbered . 


353 


A    YACHTING    ADVENTURE 


III 

Strange  to  say,  before  the  end  of  these  operations 
the  four  conspirators  had  changed  their  mind  about 
putting  to  sea.  A  sweet  little  cross  wind  helped 
them,  after  weighing,  to  drop  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  on  the  tide  and  take  with  accuracy  a  nice 
unencumbered  berth,  where  they  waited  for  what 
the  dawn  would  bring  forth.  It  hardly  needs  saying 
that  while  these  attentions  were  paying  to  her 
kedge,  the  Maiden  Aunt,  under  the  influence  of  this 
same  sweet  cross  wind,  had  been  sagging  away 
considerably  out  of  her  position,  ill-chosen  at  the 
best.  The  wretched  skipper,  casting  a  look  around 
him  in  the  now  widening  dawn,  and  being  doubtless 
misled  by  the  Fayaway's  altered  bearings,  began  to 
shout  orders,  first  to  tighten  up  on  to  the  kedge, 
then  to  tumble  into  the  dinghy  again  and  shift  it. 
In  the  response  of  the  crew,  a  certain  "  Bill " 
appeared  to  be  missing.  "  Bill !— get  forward, 
Bill  !     Where  the  dickens  is  Bill  ?  " 

"  If  I  don't  mistake "  murmured  one  of  the 

Fayaway's  crew,  rapturously.  "  If  I  don't  mistake, 
it  was  Bill  went  ashore  by  himself  in  the  punt  last 
night.     Any  sign  of  the  punt  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  he  's  ashore  yet.  .  .  .  Oh,  here  are  going 
to  be  developments  !  " 

"  Bill !— where's  Bill  ?  "     The  call  on  board  the 


359 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

Maiden  Aunt  had  been  taken  up  derisively,  and  as 
three  of  her  crew  tumbled  out  and  cast  off  the  dinghy 
to  shift  the  hedge  they  were  exhorted  from  two  or 
three  decks  to  break  the  news  gently  to  Bill's  widow. 

There  fell  an  ironical  hush  as  they  reached  the 
end  of  the  rope  and  began  to  heave  the  kedge  up. 
A  derisive  cheer  followed  as  they  got  it  on  board  ; 
then  another  hush,  with  some  chuckles,  as  it  became 
evident  they  were  yet  foul.  They  were  hauling  at 
something  heavily  reluctant,  which  yet  yielded  and 
came  up  to  them  slowly  out  of  the  ooze. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder  if  'twas  Bill  !  "  suggested  a 
voice  amid  more  laughter. 

"  Hush  ! — oh,  hush,"  trembled  back  a  voice  from 
the  dinghy.     "  It— it  is  Bill !  " 

In  the  Fayaway  one  of  the  conspirators  growled, 
"  Do  you  think  I  'm  not  watching  ?  What 's  the 
sense  to  keep  pinching  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  but  look  !  "  fairly  sobbed  the  other,  nodding 
his  head  towards  the  Maiden  Aunt.  There,  leaning 
over  her  bulwarks,  stood  the  little  owner  vainly 
trying  to  comprehend  the  scene,  and  there,  hidden 
from  him  under  her  counter,  unobserved,  painfully 
anxious  to  elude  observation,  was  Bill — the  authentic 
Bill — creeping  on  board  by  the  stern  ladder  from  the 
punt  after  his  night  ashore. 

"  'Tis  suicide  !  "  said  a  voice,  very  solemn  and 
distinct,  from  the  stern  of  the  dinghy.  Then,  as  the 
man  collared  the  corpse  to  drag  it  aboard,  his  clutch 
pulled  the  jersey  up  and  disclosed — a  ginger-beer 

360 


A    YACHTING    ADVENTURE 

jar.  .  .  .  "  What,  again,  Crippen  ?  "  piped  a 
voice. 

"  But  what  are  they  all  laughing  at  ?  "  asked  the 
little  owner,  turning  around  to  the  real  Bill,  who 
by  this  time  had  gained  the  deck,  and  stood  crapulous 
at  his   elbow.     "  Eh  ?      .      .  As    I   understood 

someone  has  been  playing  a  practical  joke.  I  don't 
quite  understand,  though.  I  will  ask  the  captain 
to  explain  it  to  me  at  breakfast."  And  he  went 
below. 

It  was  the  Maiden  Aunt,  after  all,  that  weighed 
earliest,  and  was  well  at  sea  before  breakfast-time. 
The  other  yachts  somehow  did  not  like  the  look  of 
the  weather  and  preferred  to  stay  in  port,  where  they 
discussed  the  story.  So,  for  once  in  her  career,  she 
earned  the  reputation  of  having  put  out  when  the 
rest  did  not  dare. 


361 


The  Dive  of  the  Gannet 


In  the  days  when  I  was  breaking  away  from  the 
chains  of  Fleet  Street — never  mind  how  long  ago — 
there  happened  a  pause  of  six  months  during  which, 
though  my  native  county  had  become  again  my 
actual  home,  I  travelled  up  every  Wednesday  by 
the  night  express,  reaching  London  at  3.30  a.m.  or 
thereabouts  (of  all  cheerful  hours  !),  and  on  Fridays, 
again  through  the  night,  returned  to  my  cottage  at 
Troy.  As  it  happened,  just  at  that  time  a  Cornish 
youth  on  the  staff  of  another  weekly  newspaper  was 
doing,  though  at  less  regular  intervals,  precisely 
the  converse  ;  and  because  he  was  in  a  hurry — poor 
fellow,  he  had  to  be  ! — he  got  ahead  of  me,  who  am 
constitutionally  indolent,  in  writing  a  book  about 
these  queer  journeys.  No  doubt  our  expresses 
rattled  past  each  other  many  a  night,  and  it  used  to 
give  me  the  uncanniest  feeling  when,  week  after 
week,  I  picked  up  the  National  Observer  and  found  my 
own  experiences  related,  so  to  say,  at  topsy-turvy. 

I  did  not  know  the  man,  and  we  never  met  to 
compare  notes  until  some  few  months  before  his 
premature  death — which,  by  the  way,  was  a  real 
loss   to   letters,  though   by  this  time   no   doubt    a 

363 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

scarcely  remembered  one.  Meanwhile  his  book  had 
been  written.  Its  preface  lies  open  here  before  me, 
in  which,  after  a  word  or  1wo  on  the  staff  which 
Henley  gathered  around  him,  and  their  good  fellow- 
ship, the  apologist  pleads  that  '  he  had  a  limitless 
affection  for  the  society  of  the  band,  and  enjoyed 
the  inexpensive  dissipations  that  came  in  the  way 
of  its  members  with  a  gusto  never  exceeded.'  (That 
pet  Henleyan  word  '  gusto  '  !  How  one  can  see, 
and  forgive,  the  lad's  working  it  in  for  his  '  Master's  ' 
approval  !)  '  Yet  he  was  one  whose  presence  could 
never  be  counted  upon  unless  a  promise  had  been 
given  ;  and  it  was  the  habit  of  his  friends,  at  any 
meeting  after  a  week  during  which  they  had  not  come 
across  him,  to  inquire  how  he  had  been  faring  in 
Cornwall.'  And,  again  :  '  The  interminable  journey 
he  must  take  who  would  reach  the  West  Country 
daunted  him  not  at  all.  He  was  a  veritable  lover, 
and  would  travel  twenty  dreary  hours  for  the  sake 
of  scarce  as  many  in  the  land  of  his  desire.' 

Well,  the  book  was  written,  and  the  chapters  I 
might  have  contributed  as  a  queer  sort  of  comple- 
mental  record  will  now  never  see  the  light.  But  here 
are  the  notes  of  one. 

$  ;£  $  ife  $ 

....  It  is  less  than  twenty  hours  since  I  cashed 
the  cheque  that  pays  for  my  holiday.  The  tall  clerk 
at  the  City  Bank  on  Ludgate  Hill  seemed  to  guess  all 
about  it,  for  he  looked  at  me  in  a  knowing  way  as  he 
counted   out   the   notes.     He   has    the   make   of   a 

364 


THE    DIVE    OF    THE    GANNET 

cricketer,  and  somehow,  on  these  too  rare  occasions, 
we  have  built  up  a  friendly  understanding.  I  suspect 
him  of  reading  my  books  ;  I  know  that  regularly 
towards  the  end  of  Lent  I  am  tempted  to  propose 
that  we  have  half  a  crown  on  the  Boat  Race,  but 
forbear  upon  reflection  that  the  bank  would  probably 
frown  upon  the  innocent  wager,  and  I  remember  also 
that  when  I  drew  out  a  frightening  sum  for  the 
purpose  of  getting  married  his  smile  followed  me  to 
the  door. 

.  On  my  way  up  Fleet  Street,  in  the 
thronged  luncheon  hour,  I  came  on  the  strangest 
sight.  As  usually  happens  in  early  August,  a  part 
of  the  roadway  was  '  up  '  and  roped  off  ;  and  there 
in  the  roped  space,  amid  a  pile  of  wood  blocks, 
sprawled  four  navvies  in  the  profoundest  slumber. 
The  wheels  of  the  omnibuses,  moving  on  between 
checks  of  traffic,  almost  grazed  their  heads  ;  the 
passing  crowd  on  the  pavement  skirted  their  hob- 
nailed boot-soles  by  a  bare  six  inches.  But  there 
they  slept,  all  four,  with  faces  upturned  to  the  noon- 
day sun — supine,  gigantic,  confident  as  babes — while 
Fleet  Street  roared  by  them. 

.     .     .     .     9.30  p.m.,  Paddington,  and  the  night 
express  pulling  out  from  the  platform. 

With  three  great  snorts  of  strength, 

Stretching  my  mighty  length. 
Like  some  long  dragon  stirring  in  his  sleep, 

Out  from  the  glai'e  of  gas 

Into  the  night  I  pass 
And  plunge  alone  into  the  silence  deep. 

365 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

....  And  now  7  a.m.  I  am  standing  over  the 
transparent  tide  that  surges  close  under  my  garden 
wall  and  preparing  to  take  the  dread,  delicious 
plunge.  .  .  .  Towelling  myself  after  it,  I  catch 
sight  of  two  gannets  wheeling  against  the  blue,  a 
little  be3'ond  the  harbour's  mouth  ;  and  having  lit  a 
cigarette  and  pulled  the  bath  gown  about  me,  I  seat 
myself  luxuriously  to  watch  them. 


There  is  nothing  in  the  world  quite  comparable 
with  the  dive  of  a  gannet.  He  wheels  about  in 
immense  circles  at  a  steady  speed,  with  sometimes  a 
long  glide  as  a  rest  between  the  interlooping  curves. 
At  this  time  you  judge  him  to  be  a  good  two  hundred 
feet  above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Of  a  sudden  he 
sights  his  prey,  shoots  a  few  feet  higher  yet  (but  you 
must  have  quick  eyes  to  detect  this) ,  and  with  wings 
laid  close  to  his  side  drops  like  a  plummet,  striking 
the  water  with  a  splash  that  is  clearly  visible  to  me 
here  at  more  than  a  mile's  distance.  The  column  of 
spray  he  sends  up  must  be  ten  feet  high.  There  is  no 
more  glorious  diving  in  the  world  ;  it  goes  on  around 
our  Cornish  coast  almost  incessantly,  and  I  could 
watch  it  for  hours  together. 

My  friend  M.  D ,  of  the  County  Council,  would 

declare  an  inexorable  war  on  these  birds,  and  we 
wage  great  combat  in  the  Council  over  them.  He 
comes  to  me  and  urges  gravely  that  the  Bass  Rock 

366 


THE    DIVE    OF    THE    GANNET 

alone  harbours  a  million  of  these  gannets,  or  Solan 
geese — a  computation  which  I  promptly  challenge, 
knowing  the  incurable  inaccuracy  of  statisticians. 
He  demonstrated  to  me  further  that  each  of  these 
ravenous  birds  consumes — I  forget  what — say  six 
pounds  of  fish  per  diem,  and  asks  me  to  meditate  on 
the  appalling  total.  I  answer  his  figures  by  quoting 
back  the  million  or  so  of  potential  fish  spawned  by  a 
single  herring  or  pilchard  ;  I  urge  (and  he  cannot 
deny)  that  a  single  school  of  these  fish  sometimes 
extends  in  a  pretty  closely -packed  mass  for  a  hundred 
miles  and  more.  (Think  of  it  !)  And  I  go  on  to 
urge  that,  if  Nature  did  not  provide  these  gannets  and 
other  depredators,  in  a  few  years  the  Atlantic  liners 
would  find  their  progress  clogged  by  fish,  and  that  in 
a  few  years  further  the  whole  habitable  globe  would 
perish  miserably  under  accumulations  of  icthyis 
guano.  Upon  this  he  retorts  with  a  really  brilliant 
theory — that  until  Messrs.  Watt  and  Stephenson 
invented  railways  there  continued  a  fair  balance. 
The  depredators  in  the  sea  up  to  that  time  left  a 
sufficient  harvest  for  man  ;  but  of  late  years  the 
fisherman,  who  used  to  get  a  living  from  the  fish  he 
could  pile  into  jowters'  carts,  has  opened  markets  in 
London,  Birmingham,  Manchester,  etc.,  and  that  to 
protect  these  markets  we  must  declare  war  on  the 
gannet.  Again  I  insist  that  all  the  fish  trains  run 
by  all  the  railways  in  the  world  can  only  nibble  at 
the  fringe  of  productivity  of  an  army  of  fish  a  hundred 
miles  long,  every  female  of  which  has  something  like 

367 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

a  million  eggs  to  shed.     And  so  we  go  on,   each 
arguing  heatedly. 

*  *  *  *  * 

But  I  am  too  weary  after  the  night  journey  from 
London  to  pursue  the  argument — even  here,  where 
I  can  sit  alone  with  a  cigarette  and  have  it  all  my 
own  way.  I  am  wondering  how  the  gannet,  even 
with  his  thick  plumage,  can  drop  plump  from  such 
a  height  and  yet  not  break  his  neck.  Sometimes, 
while  not  able  to  detect  it,  I  have  told  myself  that  at 
the  last  moment  he  must  take  the  water  at  a  glancing 
angle.  But  that  is  nonsense.  Apart  from  my 
inability  to  detect  any  such  trick,  the  impact  on  the 
water  is  visibly  terrific. 

Well,  well !  Here  at  the  start  of  my  holiday  I  am 
far  too  tired  for  speculation.  Up  in  Fleet  Street 
yesterday  four  workmen  lay  stretched  asleep  in  the 
sun's  eye  as  doubtless  workmen  dozed  at  noonday 
on  the  steps  of  Cheops'  pyramid  abuilding  ;  and 
down  here — by  twenty  hours  removed — I  see,  as  I 
throw  the  end  of  my  cigarette  away, 

The  gannets  dive  as  Noah  saw  them  dive 
O'er  sunken  Ararat. 


368 


II? 


I 

If   I    Were   a   Millionaire 


If  I  were  a  millionaire- 


'  Was  it  a  publisher  who  invited  you  to  imagine 
that  ?  '  asked  Cynthia.  "  If  so,  the  man  must 
want  to  add  insult  to  injury." 

When  Cynthia  interrupts  me  in  the  throes  of 
composition  I  sometimes  miss  the  point  and  answer 
inattentively. 

'  I  don't  see  where  the  insult  comes  in,"  said  I. 
"  A  story-teller  has  at  times  to  imagine  himself  all 
sorts  of  unpleasant  characters — a  pirate,  for  instance, 
or  an  anarchist.  Why  not  a  millionaire  as  well 
as  any  other  enemy  of  society  ?  If  I  were  a 
millionaire " 

"  Ah  !  "  Cynthia  drew  a  long  breath,  laid  down 
htfr  knitting,  and  leaned  forward  with  her  hands 
spread  to  the  fire  and  a  soft  rapture  in  her  eyes. 
"  You  should  put  away  pen  and  paper  and  never 
trouble  to  write  another  book  in  your  life  !  "  she 
murmured. 

369 
24 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 


<< 


I — I  had  hoped  that  one  or  two  masterpieces 
yet  remained  to  be  written,"  was  my  faint  protest. 
She  ignored  it. 

"  And  you  could  have  that  six  months  in  Rome, 
and  the  long  tour  in  Greece,  with  the  cruise  to  the 
Ionian  Islands,  and  that  other  cruise  up  the  Nile — 
all  the  journeys,  in  fact,  that  you  have  always  been 
planning  but  could  never  afford." 

"Alas!    no." 

"  And  that  winter  in  Italy,  with  all  those  pictures 
to  see.  You  have  told  me  often  enough,  when  in  a 
bad  temper,  lamenting  your  fate,  that  Italy  was 
necessary  to  every  Englishman  who  tried  to  be  an 
artist,  and  that,  except  for  the  shortest  of  visits, 
you  had  missed  it." 

"  Alas  !  yes.  But  if  I  am  to  write  no  more  books 
it  would  scarcely  seem  to  matter." 

"  And  Japan  and  Quebec — not  to  mention  Seville 
and  Salamanca,  and  the  pilgrimage  to  Madrid  to  see 
Velazquez'  '  Surrender  of  Breda.'  We  could  contrive 
them  all." 

"  Contrive  !  '  I  echoed.  "  You  don't  seem  to 
realise  your  luck.  With  a  million  of  money  we  can 
buy  a  steam-yacht,  and  order  it  to  take  us  whither- 
soever we  list.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  contrast 
it  with  our  old  voyages  in  the  little  Vida,  when  I 
cooked  breakfast  in  the  cockpit  whilst  you  tidied  the 
cabin — do  you  remember  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  this.  As  if  either  of  us  could  ever 
forget ! 

370 


IF? 


"  I  detest  steam,"  she  answered.  "  We  would 
start  with  a  comfortable  schooner — a  safe,  roomy 
one,  with  high  bulwarks." 

"  Already,"  said  I,  "  you  begin  to  evince  the 
creeping  cautiousness  of  affluence.  There  were  no 
bulwarks  on  the  little  Vida  ;  and  when  we  were  young, 
and  it  really  mattered  if  we  drowned,  a  sea  on  board 
used  to  be  rather  good  fun.  Anyhow,  we  might  start 
in  your  comfortable  schooner  ;  assuredly  in  the  time 
left  to  us  we  should  never  arrive  at  all  the  ports  we 
desire  to  visit." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  need  make  us  out  older 
than  we  are,"  objected  Cynthia,  and  the  rebuke  will 
ever  be  convincing  while  she  can  pout  so  becomingly. 

"  You  forget,"  I  replied,  "  I  have  just  come  into 
a  million  of  money,  and  am  feeling  the  strain." 

"  Anyhow,"  she  said,  "  we  could  enlarge  the 
library — as  you  planned,  two  years  ago." 

"  That  is  true,"  I  agreed,  looking  around  the 
narrow  workshop  in  which  we  sit  after  dinner, 
preferring  it  to  the  drawing-room.  The  books 
stand  two-deep  on  its  shelves,  and  Heaven  alone 
knows  how  much  loss  of  time  and  temper  this  has 
cost  me  at  one  time  and  another.  "  At  this  moment 
I  am  wondering  where  to  dig  for  my  volume  of 
Clough,  to  turn  up  the  poem  that  begins  : 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money — heigho  ! 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money  ! 

and  resumes   the  strain    (as   I   seem  to  recollect) 

37* 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

da  capo.     I  don't  see  what  else  could  be  done  with 
so  absolute  a  thought." 

"It  is  the  absurdest  room  for  a  library,"  Cynthia 
announced  with  the  air  of  one  making  a  discovery. 
"  It  ought  to  be  at  least  twice  as  large  again." 

"  But  if  I  am  to  have  done  with  books  it  scarcely 
seems  necessary " 

"  And  then,"  she  pursued,  "  we  could  have  a  floor 
above,  which  would  just  take  that  other  guest- 
chamber  we  have  been  wanting  so  long,  with  a 
dressing-room,  extra  bathroom,  and  perhaps  a  new 
heating-cupboard " 

At  this  point  I  arose  and  took  the  hearth  firmly, 
standing  above  her  with  my  hands  deep  in  my 
pockets.  "  I  must  beg  you  to  listen,"  said  I,  "  as 
one  millionaire  to  another." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  only  one  million  between 
us." 

"  Don't  trifle,  please— as  one  joint  owner  in  a 
million  to  another,  if  you  prefer  it."  Cynthia 
murmured  that  she  didn't,  but  I  went  on  unheeding. 
:  You  don't  seem  to  know  what  a  million  of  money 
means.  You  talk  about  enlarging  this  box  of  a 
house  when  a  moment's  reflection  should  tell  you 
that  people  in  our  position  cannot  possibly  be  content 
with  less  than  a  country  seat,  with  the  sort  of  garden 
you  see  illustrated  in  Country  Life,  and  at  least 
a  couple  of  thousand  acres  of  rough  shooting, 
not  to  mention  a  home-farm,  a  deer-park,  and  such 
trifles." 


372 


IF  ? 


"  I  have  always  wanted  that,"  agreed  Cynthia 
sweetly  ;  "  with  a  house  (or  at  least  a  flat)  in  London. 
But  I  began  with  this  house  because  we  must  have 
this  too  ;  the  children  think  there  's  no  such  home 
in  the  world." 

"  God  bless  them  for  that  !     But  how  many  days 
in  the  year  are  we  already  leaving  them  to  enjoy  it  ? 
For  I  know  that,  while  you  can  help  it,  you  will 
never  let  them  out  of  your  care.     Well,  imprimis,  we 
tour  the  world  in  a  fine  schooner  yacht,  wherein 
I  listen  lor  their  footsteps  on  deck,  myself  seated 
in  my  cabin  signing  cheques — the  most  abhorrent 
occupation  in  the  world.     You,  meanwhile,  are  not 
only  engaged  in  wondering  what  deterioration  our 
absence   will    work   in   our   own   domestics — and    I 
should  say  that  no  living  woman  had  ever  been 
luckier  in  her  servants,  if  I  didn't  know  that  with 
you  it  's  no  luck  at  all,  but  just  a  combination  of 
steady  government  with  steady  liking — I  repeat  you 
are   not    only   worrying   about    them,   but    fretting 
yourself  about  servants  to  be  engaged  for  London  : 
how  to  engage  them,  and  then  how  to  trust  them — 
untried  creatures,  exposed  (in  our  frequent  absences) 
to  a  hundred  temptations  of  which  our  tried  ones 
know  nothing.     While  our  yacht  explored — say  the 
South   Sea   Islands — you  would   be   worrying   over 
servants.     On  top  of  that  you  would  want  me  to 
stand  for  Parliament." 

"  Women  are  ambitious,"  said  Cynthia,  musing. 
"  So  are  some  men,  in  their  way.     I  once  had  an 

373 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

ambition  to  write  books.  But  as  yet  we  have  faced 
only  the  inconvenience  of  living  up  to  our  income. 
We  have  still  to  consider  the  far  more  difficult 
problem  of  getting  rid  of  the  capital  before  we  die." 

"  I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  A  racing  stable  would  bore  me  to  death.  When 
we  visited  Monte  Carlo  some  years  ago,  we  agreed 
in  disliking  the  smell  around  the  tables.  To 
distribute  the  money  among  the  deserving  poor 
would  take  all  the  time  we  have  already  set  aside 
for  foreign  travel.  Yet  something  must  be  done, 
for  the  necessity  is  urgent.  You  remember  the 
American  millionaire  we  met  at  Basle  ?  To  be 
precise,  it  was  I  who  encountered  him  after  his 
womenfolk  had  driven  me  to  escape  from  the 
compartment  in  which  for  forty  minutes  their  talk 
had  been  torture.  I  abandoned  you  to  them  ;  yes, 
I  confess  my  cowardice.  I  plunged  into  the  nearest 
refuge,  a  second-class  smoker,  and  there  I  stumbled 
over  the  Steel  King.  He  sat  picking  at  a  paper  bag 
stained  with  the  juices  of  decayed  cherries.  They 
had  handed  out  this  refuse  to  him  at  the  station  before 
last,  when  he  looked  in  to  see  '  how  they  were  getting 
on.'  Having  finished  his  meal  of  offal,  he  lit  an 
unsavoury  cheap  cigar,  and  asked  (for  he  recognised 
me)  what  I  thought  of  his  Show — that  was  the 
word  ;  and  actually  I  conceived  then  and  there 
a  respect  for  this  man  (ostensibly  the  meanest  of 
human  products),  and  could  understand  his  pride 
in  escorting  such  a  wife  and  such  daughters  on  the 

374 


IF? 


mission  of  making  Europe  sit  up.  I  found  something 
great  in  this  showman  who  could  so  cheerfully  accept 
the  charity  of  his  exhibits  and  take  its  orts,  with 
his  dignity,  off  to  a  second-class  smoking  carriage. 
But  I  felt  no  desire  to  emulate  his  greatness.  My 
dear,"  I  exclaimed  upon  a  sudden  happy  thought, 
'  I  have  it  !  We  can  make  over  the  bulk  of  this  silly 
wealth  to  the  Bodleian,  retaining  enough  only  to 
piy  our  passages  handsomely  around  the  world  and 
keep  us  on  our  return  in  comfort  all  the  rest  of  our 
days." 

"  The  Bodleian  !  "  said  Cynthia.  "  Doesn't  that 
already  get  a  copy  of  every  one  of  your  books  for 
nothing  ?     I  never  could  see  why  ?  " 

"  Nor  I.  But  since  you  condemn  me  to  write  no 
more,  I  suggest  that  we  owe  it  some  compensation." 


375 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

II 

"  If   Every   Face   Were    Friendly' 

It  actually  happens  to  most  of  us  when  we  are  born, 
and  for  some  time  after  ;  but  this  must  be  simply 
because  we  are  weak.  Few  infants  are  beautiful ; 
still  fewer  meritorious  ;  and  indeed  the  friendliest 
face  of  all  is  hers  whom  our  one  exploit  has  just 
afflicted  with  intolerable  pain.  To  some  of  us  again 
it  will  happen  when  we  die,  and  again  (I  suspect) 
because  we  are  helpless  and  nothing  matters.  We 
protest  against  the  first  insult  with  a  feeble 
wailing  : — 

On  parent  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  sat'st  while  all  around  thee  smiled. 

To  the  last  we  oppose  that  mask  of  scorn,  calm, 
set,  impassive,  which  even  a  weakling  must  win  in 
the  end — yea,  though  all  his  days  have  been  spent 
in  truckling  to  his  fellows.  In  the  interim  we  have 
our  job  to  do  in  the  world,  and  he  to  whom  every 
face  is  friendly  may  be  sure  that  he  is  shirking  it. 

When  this  question  was  posited,  I  passed  it  on  to 
Cynthia.  "  You,  of  all  men  !  "  she  commented, 
having  reason  only  too  dire  to  know  my  instinct  for 
lost  causes  and  forsaken  beliefs — or  rather,  for  causes 
that  have  nothing  left  to  lose,  and  beliefs  that  still 
await    the    compliment    of   betrayal.     In  truth   on 

376 


IF? 


ninety-nine  points  out  of  the  hundred  she  finds  me 
a  dubious,  hesitating  Christian  ;  whereas  on  the 
hundredth  I  am  (to  her  equal  if  not  greater 
disappointment)  firm  as  a  rock.  The  rock  stands 
on  no  base  of  doctrine,  though  I  drag  in  doctrine  to 
support  it  when  we  argue  across  the  table.  I  have- 
an  incurable  trick  of  liking  my  adversary. 

She,  always  practical,  demands  to  know  if  I  agree 
with  mine  adversary  while  in  the  way  with  him  ; 
and  there  undoubtedly  she  may  score  a  point.  But 
T  yet  maintain  that  an  enemy  serves  you  more 
constantly  than  a  friend,  for  he  seldom  disappoints. 
It  is  good  sense  if  poor  rhyme,  that 

He  who  would  love  his  fellow-men 
Must  not  expect  too  much  of  them. 

We  expect  too  much  of  friends,  too  little  of  enemies, 
and  so  the  enemies  get  more  than  their  share  of 
chances.  Upon  us,  on  the  other  hand,  rests  an 
obligation  to  be  more  constant  in  amity  than  in  hate, 
especially  in  public  life.  "  It  is  our  business,"  says- 
Burke,  "  to  cultivate  friendships  and  to  incur 
enmities  ;  to  have  both  strong,  but  both  selected  ; 
in  the  one  to  be  placable,  in  the  other  immovable." 
A  man  is  permitted  to  rest  under  illusion  concerning 
his  friends,  as  woe  betide  him  if  he  do  not  cherish 
a  lifelong  illusion  concerning  his  wife  !  But  if  he  truly 
desires  to  see  himself  steadily  as  others  see  him  as 
a  help  to  the  know  thyself  recommended  by  sages,  let 
him  keep  an  eye  on  his  enemies  rather  than  any 

377 


NEWS    FROM    THE    DUCHY 

looking-glass  which  reflects  him  in  his  favourite 
postures.  There  is  a  story  of  a  man  whose  hate  of 
another  man  went  deep  as  hell.  In  the  end  he  could 
•endure  the  other  man  no  moment  longer  ;  s6  he 
killed  him  and  buried  him  deep  (as  nearly  as  he  could 
to  hell).  But  the  corpse  was  no  sooner  out  of  the  way 
than  the  survivor  began  to  suffer  from  a  loneliness, 
which  turned  into  an  intolerable  restlessness  and 
drove  him  at  length  to  visit  the  grave  and  disinter 
his  victim.  He  dug  down  and  down,  in  the  end 
tossing  aside  his  spade  and  digging  with  clawed 
hands,  ghoulishly.  So  he  dug  until,  laying  bare  a 
face,  he  gazed  and  recognised  it  for  his  own. 

Of  all  parables  known  to  me  this  is  about  the 
truest.  As  iron  sharpeneth  iron,  so  a  man  sharpeneth 
the  countenance  of  his — enemy,  and  is  sharpened 
and  shaped  by  it.  I  am  not  preaching  that  in  public 
life  a  man  shall  be  a  Phocion  or  a  Coriolanus. 
■Coriolanus  held  his  fellow-creatures  in  a  scorn  which 
(had  he  possessed  logic)  stultified  all  service  of  them. 
He  was,  to  be  short,  a  mere  monstrous  egoist.  I 
think  better  of  Phocion  for  the  legacy  which,  when 
his  countrymen  put  him  to  death,  he  left  to  his  son 
— "  Bid  him  never  revenge  the  wrong  the  Athenians 
do  me."  That  was  noble  ;  it  anticipated  practically 
•on  the  lips  of  a  man  going  to  his  doom  a  truth  which 
Marcus  Aurelius  afterwards  expressed  at  leisure  : 
"  The  best  kind  of  revenge  is,  not  to  become  like 
unto  them."  Yet  I  am  sure  Phocion  was  vain  and 
•wrong   when,    making   a   speech   which   the   public 

378 


IF? 

interrupted  with  applause,  he  turned  to  a  friend 
at  his  elbow  and  asked,  "  Have  I  said  anything 
foolish  ?  If  he  so  despised  assent,  why  need  he 
have  made  any  speech  at  all  ?  Unless  a  man  be 
hopeful  of  some  power  to  persuade  I  cannot  conceive 
what  business  he  has,  or  can  think  he  has,  upon 
a  platform. 

We  are  here,  as  I  suppose,  to  strive  with  the 
multitude  ;  not  to  be  its  slaves  and  as  little  to  be 
its  scorners ;  to  persuade  it,  and  as  a  preliminary, 
to  understand  it ;  to  understand  even  its  wrath, 
for  its  wrath  at  best  pays  us  the  compliment  of 
being  interested  in  us.  If  we  believe  with  Ecclesi- 
asticus,  that  no  man  is  more  faithful  than  the  counsel 
of  our  own  heart,  that  "  a  man's  mind  is  sometimes 
wont  to  tell  him  more  than  seven  watchmen  that 
sit  above  in  a  high  tower  " — and  if  we  have  the  pluck 
to  stand  by  that  belief,  we  may  likely  enough  at 
some  time  in  our  lives  find  that  wrath  denounce  us 
as  enemies  of  our  country  or  of  religion,  and  be 
under  the  bitter  necessity  of  learning,  with  Ibsen's 
Doctor  Stockmann,  that  the  strongest  man  on  earth 
is  he  who  stands  alone.  How  terrible,  for  example, 
was  that  ordeal  of  a  nation's  hate  through  which 
Bright  and  Cobden  passed  in  the  first  year  of  the 
Crimean  War,  and  how  gloriously  they  stood  it  ! 
Recall  Bright's  letter,  written  in  the  worst  of  it,  to 
a  Mayor  of  Manchester  who  had  invited  him  to 
attend  a  meeting  for  the  Patriotic  Fund  : — 

"  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  cannot  go  with  you  : 

379 


NEWS    FROM    THE     DUCHY 

I  will  have  no  part  in  this  terrible  crime.  My  hands 
shall  be  unstained  with  the  blood  that  is  being  shed. 
The  necessity  of  maintaining  themselves  in  office  may 
influence  an  Administration  ;  delusions  may  mislead 
a  people  ;  Vettel  may  afford  you  a  law  and  a  defence. 
But  no  respect  for  men  who  form  a  Government,  no 
regard  I  have  for  going  with  the  stream,  and  no  fear  of 
being  deemed  wanting  in  patriotism,  shall  influence 
me  in  favour  of  a  policy  which  in  my  conscience 
I  believe  to  be  as  criminal  before  God  as  it  is  destruc- 
tive of  the  true  interest  of  my  country." 

There  are  cranks  in  this  world,  some  of  whom  seem 
to  shape  their  actions  with  an  eye  on  posterity.  There 
are  even  stranger  cranks — and  I  think  Phocion  was 
one — who  would  seem  to  posture  for  the  approval  of 

antiquity.     ("  D n    the    age.      I    will    write    for 

antiquity  !  "  vowed  Lamb  when  an  editor  rejected 
a  sonnet  of  his  as  likely  to  shock  the  contemporary 
public.)  But  the  above  letter  of  Bright's  has  no  sly 
glance  forward,  or  backward,  or  upward  at  Her 
Majesty's  Ministers  of  that  date,  the  nation's  watch- 
men seated  above  in  the  high  tower  ;  but  inward, 
upon  the  counsel  of  his  own  heart,  and  to  be  fired 
by  the  pride  of  his  own  manliness.  '  "  A  little  touch 
of  something  like  pride,"  says  an  old  seventeenth- 
century  writer,  "  is  seated  in  the  true  sense  of  a 
man's  own  greatness,  without  which  his  humility 
and  modesty  would  be  contemptible  virtues  !  " 

Indeed  a  man  has  in  the  end  less  to  fear  from  this 
wrath  of  the  public  than  from  the  smiles  of  a  world 

380 


IF? 

that  would  allure  him  to  be  one  with  it,  and  one  at 
the  same  time  with  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  When 
the  powerful  change  their  face  and  flatter  us,  that  is 
the  time  to  beware.  There  lies  the  crisis,  to  maintain 
good  manners  and  yet  keep  up  the  combat.  "  It  is 
easy,"  says  Emerson,  "  to  live  after  the  world's 
opinion  ;  it  is  easy  in  solitude  to  live  after  one's  own  ; 
but  the  great  man  is  he  who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd 
keeps  with  perfect  sweetness  the  independence  of 
solitude." 

Yet  I  suppose  we  all  have  a  longing  to  end  well- 
beloved.  But  a  few  of  us  can  hope  for  any  con- 
tinuance of  fame  ;  and  as  the  poorest  look  forward  to 
something  of  a  funeral,  so  the  mass  of  the  better-to-do 
hanker  for  a  handful  at  least  of  genuine  mourners  : — 

All  I  can 

My  worldly  strife  shall  be ; 
They  one  day  say  of  me, 
"He  died  a  good  old  man." 

The  shortest  way  to  this  would  seem  to  be  by 
living  bravely,  loving  where  we  can,  dealing 
courteously,  endeavouring  to  give  our  adversaries 
credit  for  good  intentions.  No  one — if  men  were 
frank — can  give  us  sixpenny  worth  of  information 
concerning  any  other  world  we  may  hereafter 
inhabit ;  but  there  's  a  pleasure  in  leaving  a  name 
to  call  up,  when  men  happen  to  remember  it,  a 
certain  light  in  the  eyes  and  the  impulsive  words,  "  I 
wish  you  had  known  him  !  " 


J.  W.  AiTowsiiiith  Ltd.,  Piinteis,  Bristol,  Eng. 


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